Devils in Disguise
by KatZen
Summary: To some people, the members of International Rescue may be considered heroes, in their own right. To others, they could also be considered as the face of the devil.
1. Prologue

**Disclaimer: ****The Thunderbirds do not belong to me. They are the intellectual and actual property of Gerry Anderson and his affiliates. Any original characters are a product of my imagination.**

**AN: I know, I know, I should have been typing up the next chapter to IBBS, but this little plot bunny sunk it's teeth into my brain and I couldn't shake it, try as I might. This is most definitely part of the saga/series/linked stories I've been writing over the years, and is most definitely a sequel to "Hidden Identity" and stories set prior to that one. Needless to say, OCs established in the other tales will feature in this. Anyway, enough from me... hope you enjoy. :)**

Devils in Disguise

The Devil, it transpired, had many faces.

Well, to be more specific, Satan had five.

Five extremely popular, pretty-boy faces.

A prisoner to his belief, the man sat in the shadows of a darkened room, his rocker creaking with every move, forward and back. Newspaper cuttings and magazine articles wallpapered all four walls – bar one gap for a small window – and the ceiling, while photographs coveted from unofficial sources carpeted the wooden floorboards. The man obsessed over the five adversaries; he knew their strengths, he knew their weaknesses, he knew what motivated them to do what they did. He knew all the intimate, personal details that coloured their lives, and he intended to use that to his advantage.

In his hand, he clenched one of the few photographs of his family – his wife, his two sons and his daughter. They had not lived through the devastating earthquake that had struck San Francisco four years ago; they couldn't see what he had become, bitter and twisted after their deaths, with only revenge to live for.

The man blamed the team of Lucifer for their deaths.

But that was about to change. Lucifer would suffer, in the same manner he had suffered. Lucifer would be punished, paying penance for their sins. Lucifer would burn in hell, of that much he was sure.

From the window, the glimmer of a raging inferno glowed a warm orange, sparks occasionally firing off into the sky.

"Come on," he murmured, framing the photos of the Devils with his hands. "Come on, International Rescue. Come to Daddy, so he can serve you your just desserts."


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: The Thunderbirds do not belong to me. They are the intellectual and actual property of Gerry Anderson and his affiliates. Any original characters are a product of my imagination.**

Chapter Two

The pilot of the small turbofan powered plane lowered the landing gear as he lined up his approach for the runway. Lowering the plane gradually, the pilot then proceeded to angle the plane at nine degrees before his tyres hit the ground with a slight bounce.

"Almost as good as you, Scott," Jeff Tracy commented, leaning on the railings of the villa's balcony.

"Well," Scott replied, bouncing his six month old son in his arms in a futile attempt to calm the infant down. "John hasn't flown in a while; it's to be expected."

"Think he enjoyed his shore leave?" Jeff stifled a yawn beneath his hand, raked the other one through his hair. John had been incredibly tight-lipped over the reasons he needed time away from the island. Jeff had seen no reason not to oblige John's request, especially since he had pulled a double rotation on Five, as Alan had been violently ill with gastric flu, to have taken John's place. In the end, Brains had volunteered to spend the month on Five, citing that he needed to update the communications panels on the Bird to ensure optimal functioning.

"If he got the answer he wanted to hear," Scott mused, shifting the baby in his arms so that he could offer the infant a teething ring, "I'd guarantee he had a good time."

Another yawn from Jeff. He concluded that it was his body's way of telling him that he needed his sleep. After the three rescues that had been relayed to the island in the middle of the night over consecutive days, he wasn't surprised. He'd greet John in the morning after catching some much needed shut eye; he was certain his second eldest would understand. Bidding goodnight to his eldest son and youngest grandson, Jeff headed back to his suite in the bowels of the villa.

"What do you think, Nick?" Scott asked the baby in his arms. Having been privy to John's plans, he knew exactly why John had been adamant in requesting a four day pass to the mainland. "Think Uncle Johnny had the guts to ask her, huh?"

The baby drooled and spat the teething ring out in response, preferring to chew on his father's forearm.

"Is that a no? You don't think Uncle John's gonna get hitched to Jade? You think she said no, little guy?"

So engrossed in bonding with his youngest, Scott didn't hear the soft footfalls of the peroxide blond Tracy joining him on the balcony.

"She said the opposite, Scott. Jeez, for a Tracy boy, you sure don't have a lot of faith in me," John moaned, unable to suppress the grin that spread over his face.

Stunned silence, broken by Nick gurgling up at his uncle, blue eyes blazing under the moonlight.

John took the baby noises as congratulations. "Thank you, Nick. See, at least one of you believes in me."

"John, that's fantastic. I'd give you one of those man-hugs we've patented, but my hands are full and my shoulder's full of baby spit."

John recoiled. "I'll pass for now. Take a rain check for when I break the news to Dad."

"Alright, I'll do you the rain check for one manly hug."

Leaning on the balcony railing beside his brother, John craned his neck and contemplated the sky. He could make out each star; knew them by their name and what constellations they were part of, but there was only one he was interested in. Eyes trained on finding the brightest star in the sky, just left of where Thunderbird Five was locked in orbit, John asked, "D'you think Mom would approve?"

"John, if you're happy, she's happy too," Scott supplied. "Remember, there are many women in the world, but it takes a special one to be a Tracy. Mom's proof of that."

The klaxon blared out around the villa, shrill and relentless. John raced towards the Command Centre, Scott following at a more sedated speed. Virgil stumbled moments after Scott and John, appearing to be half asleep. Alan and Gordon weren't in a better condition.

"Yes, Brains?" Jeff slid into his chair behind his desk with practised ease. "Where are we headed?"

"Uncontrolled f-f-fire in San F-F-Francisco," Brains stuttered, pushing his blue horned rimmed glasses further up his nose. "Local au-authorities can't control th-the spread of the f-f-fire. Homes and in-infrastructure under threat within a f-f-five mile radius."

"Right," Jeff asserted, pulling the baby out of Scott's arms. "I want all of you on this. Scott, John, Thunderbird One, fast as you can. Virgil, Gordon, Alan, Thunderbird Two. Take the Hoverjets and the Firefly with you."

"F.A.B."

The boys moved to their appropriate places, while Kyrano stood in the doorway, steaming coffee cup on a tray. It was a time honoured tradition; each time a rescue call came in, each time Thunderbird One or Two left Base, Kyrano would ensure that Jeff had a full cup of coffee in front of him until his sons were back, ensconced within the safety of the villa.

"Do not worry, Mr. Tracy," Kyrano assured, picking up on the twinge of fear Jeff held every time he sent his boys out. "They have each other out there, and they will look after each other. Their time is not up."

Jeff shook his head, accepted the coffee cup gracefully and took a sip of the warm liquid. "I just… I have a bad feeling about this."

* * *

><p>The rescue scene, was as per usual, chaotic, John assessed, peering out of the small, rectangular window on board One. Crowd control was all but a dream, and tens of thousands of people had broken free of the barricades that had been set up. Photographs waved like flags under the sunlight, and the media clamoured and bickered amongst each other, fighting to claim the closest and safest position to the fire.<p>

"People are stupid," John muttered to Scott, ire rising at the disorganisation that was unfolding before his eyes. "I mean, look at it. There's a raging inferno, and instead of fleeing to safety, they decide that having a barbecue party with human steaks is a good idea!"

"Don't be too harsh, John," Scott replied, diplomatic answer forming in his mind. "You don't know their story. Their loved ones could be down there. If my family were trapped there, I'd be fighting tooth and nail to get as close to them as I could."

"I guess," John sighed, as Scott brought the Bird down to land.

"Lot of people," Scott murmured, watching on as the crowd flocked to the struts of his ship. "Camera detector on, and anti-intruder alarms armed. I think we're good to go, John."

As the duo set up Mobile Control and formulated a plan of attack, Thunderbird Two came in to land beside her counterpart. Loading numerous fireproof suits and oxygen tanks into the Firefly, Virgil drove the machine out of the pod while Gordon and Alan regrouped with Scott and John.

"So, what's the plan?" Alan asked, ever eager for action.

"You see this section?" Scott pointed to an area on their 3D schematic system on Mobile Control. "That's where there's a huge concentration of people trapped. It's a chemical plant, which is why the fire can't be put out by conventional methods; the chemicals produced are volatile and are easily combustible. Virgil, take Gordon with you in the Firefly. John, Alan, this area here," Scot moved his hand lower down on the map, "this is a high school. Authorities claim that all the kids have been evacuated from the area, but there are quite a few hotspots showing up on the thermal scan Brains sent through. I want those hotspots cleared before the fire spreads and traps them there. Understand?"

Twin nods.

"Excellent. And I want half hourly reports. This is a big job, and I don't want many problems from you lot, okay? It's gonna be hard enough as it is."

With those words of wisdom imparted onto them, the four brothers left to do their Field Commander's bidding.

* * *

><p>For the Field Commander, waiting was the hardest part. The half hour reports he had instructed his field members to follow were of little comfort, and he yearned to leave Mobile Control and join one of the parties, if only to check that they were managing alright. However, common sense, and an overbearing sense of responsibility overrode his desire to have a more active role in the rescue, and he remained rooted to Mobile Control. If Scott was completely honest with himself, he really shouldn't have slighted his contribution to the rescue mission. In essence, he coordinated it; twice he had spotted an unforseen danger in the area Virgil and Gordon were working in, and twice he had directed them from behind Mobile Control, allowing them to skirt around the hazard in order to reach their rescuees.<p>

"John calling Mobile Control. This is John, calling Mobile Control. Come in, please."

"Mobile Control here. Go ahead, John."

"We've finished clearing out the hotspots. More kids decided to sneak back once they had been evacuated. The thrills of being a teen. We've also extinguished the flames in and around this area, so there's no fire threat."

"Good work, John. Infrastructure damage?"

"Extensive," John confirmed. "But we wouldn't have been able to save it anyway. Too far gone by the time we reached here."

"Okay, John. You two need to come back here and we'll wait for Virg and Gordon to resurface."

"What about the rest of the fire?" John asked, fire fighting tools poised in his hands.

"The local fire-fighters dealt with it after we gave them our formulated foam. There isn't much left of the fire."

"F.A.B, Scott. We're heading back to Mobile Control. See you in a few."

John and Alan returned, uniforms and Hoverjets covered in a thick layer of grime and soot.

"There's nothing else we can do?" Alan asked, running on adrenaline, even though his body was exhausted after the physical labour he and John had done during their part of the rescue.

"Nothing. Start packing the equipment back in the Pod. I want to be able to make the transition from here back to Base as swift as possible."

Alan complied, running the shut-down diagnostic tests on each of the Hoverjets while removing the protective suit he had donned for the rescue. John, on the other hand, remained still, arms crossed over his chest.

"Virg and Gordy coming back?"

"I don't know; haven't heard from them in a while. I'll give them two more minutes, and then I'll call them in."

"Right. Do it soon, though, Scott. I've got an odd feeling about this one."

Scott raised one eyebrow perceptively. So John had felt perturbed about this rescue too? It had to have been more than a coincidence, to have had two brothers have the feeling of unease tickle the base of their spine.

Making up his mind, Scott moved to open up a communication line between him and Virgil and Gordon, but he was beaten as the communication console beeped with an incoming message.

"Go ahead, Gordon."

"Scott, it's Virgil!"

"What about him?" The hairs on the base of Scott's neck stood up in alarm. Goosebumps raised on his arms. Never a good sign.

"He's gone."

"Gone?" Scott echoed, hardly believing his ears. "What d'you mean, gone?"

"He's gone," Gordon repeated, swallowing nervously, suppressing his fear. Fear wouldn't help him, or Virgil now. "He's been abducted."

"What?" A growl emanated from Scott. Eyes sizzled with an electrical current John had rarely seen in his big brother. It made him more wired, made him appear more of a danger and a deadly threat to those that crossed him.

"There was a note." Gordon held up the scrap of paper and read the words, even though he knew them by heart. he had committed them to memory the minute he had read the message.

"I have him."


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: The Thunderbirds do not belong to me. They are the intellectual and actual property of Gerry Anderson and his affiliates. Any original characters are a product of my imagination.**

**AN:Thank you _so _much for the reviews (I don't think I can stress this enough), but they really make my day. I mean, they really do. I tried to respond to them, but the ISP flubbed up, and none of the messages sent. Now, I'm sitting like a loner in McDonald's, uploading this, so I guess I'll take their Internet and reply here.**

**grnfield: Just one... for now. *sly grin*. Who does't like Tracy whump? Thanks for the reviews, and here's more, as you requested.**

**LiGi: The idea came from a philosophical/religious debate between some friends. Officially, I lost, but I actually think I won; I got the plot bunny for this. Can't get better than that! Well, you probably can, but that's not the point. So pleased you liked the start, hope you enjoy the next chapter just as much. **

**Silver Bee: Thank you for leaving a review. Here's hoping you like this chapter as well.**

**JoTracy123: An update? Well, since you asked, I guess I'll deliver. Thanks for leaving a review.**

**sammygirl1963: Ack, the lengths people will go to, to achieve their own ends! And family-man Scott is adorable; I couldn't not have him in there. Thanks for the review.**

Chapter Three

_Really_, the man huffed to himself as he dragged an unconscious Virgil by the toe of his boot, _did the International Rescue team have be so muscly? Seriously, not only does it make Beelzebub version 3.0 heavy to move, but it makes moving inconspicuously impossible. Does he feed himself steroids?_

From his position on the ground, Virgil stirred, groaning. With what little strength he had in his body, he tried to raise his wrist, subtly trying to activate his emergency tracking beacon. With the face smashed, cracked beyond repair, the primary locator chip would have been destroyed too. Thank God Brains had the foresight to install two locators on two separate circuits inside the watches.

The movement, unfortunately, drew his captor's attention back onto him.

"Please," Virgil groaned. Pleading may not have been something Virgil enjoyed, or did very often, but he deemed that it was okay, since it was warranted in this situation. "Help… me."

The man dropped Virgil's leg with an audible thud, spun around so he could face Virgil. To Virgil, the man looked quite deranged, with his eyes darting in all directions and his body shaking with the exertion of dragging Virgil.

"Shut up! I ain't listening, Beelzebub!"

To ensure that Virgil couldn't say another word, the man knelt down to Virgil's height and backhanded him across the face. Virgil tried to lessen the force of the blow by going with it, but his neck snapped to the right with a terrifying crack. His vision danced, blurred and swirled, making it impossible for him to take any note of his location.

The next thing he saw was a steel-capped boot aiming for the front of his face. It was too late, he realised with a wince. Legs like lead, impossible to move, arms too heavy to lift up and shield his face, there was no way he could protect himself from the next assault.

Warm splatter caked his face, ruby drops decorating the floor. Scented metallic, tasted of rusted iron nails, Virgil registered. Coupled with the excruciating pain that was emanating from his nose, he concluded that it was broken.

Again.

Closing his eyes to gain some reprieve from the pain, Virgil began to zone out, but not before hearing the insane man mutter to himself. Internally, he panicked, feared for the safety of his brothers after hearing what he heard. Without any strength to fight back, he slipped off to a stream of unconsciousness, one phrase infiltrating his mind.

_Phase Two was about to begin._

* * *

><p>Gordon had returned topside, ran the shutdown diagnostic tests on the Firefly and raced to join Scott, note scrunched in his hands. There was nothing remarkable about the note, but Gordon hoped that some tiny clue could be derived from it, allowing them to find Virgil faster.<p>

"Was there anything unusual before Virgil got taken?" Scott grilled Gordon, not wasting time on pleasantries.

"No," Gordon stated, handing Scott the note. "He was meant to stay in the Firefly while I searched for factory workers who were trapped, on foot." Gordon looked away, eyes downcast. "Flashover fire. No chance of survival. Not even enough body left to recover for their families. By the time I got back, Virgil had been abducted. In his seat was the note. That's when I called you."

Alan moved to Gordon, wrapped an arm over his shoulders. As International Rescue, it always hurt when they realised they were too late to save the people they were called out for. Gordon, of all the field operatives, was affected the most by the loss of a rescuee. It was one of the few things he absolutely loathed about working in International Rescue.

"Scott, this is way out of our league," John began in a low whisper. "We need the help of local authorities."

"I know," Scott agreed, voice just as low. "The FBI'll get involved as well. Y'know, high profile case and all that. But can we afford to do that?"

"Explain," John ordered sharply, arms crossed over his chest, back ramrod straight.

"Whoever took Virg would most likely expect us to go to them, right? Immediately, once we ascertained he was missing in action. They'll want to use Virg as leverage, use him as a tool to ensure their demands are met."

"Make your point, Scott!"

Scott swallowed, cursed his mind for voicing a traitorous thought. "We have no proof he's still alive."

John's eyes widened, appalled that Scott could even suggest such a thing. Cerulean blue eyes darkened to cobalt, reflecting an array of emotions. Anger, pain, shock interspersed within horror. "How dare you! I can't even contemplate that idea!"

"I know you can't, John," Scott replied evenly, calmly, despite the anxious gnawing sensation in his stomach. "Believe me, I don't want to either. But it _is_ an outcome that has to be taken into consideration."

A pause.

Scott regarded John.

John regarded Scott.

The pair, locked in a Mexican standoff, neither one willing to back down from their convictions.

A tap on the Field Commander's shoulder. Scott drew his eyes away slowly, coming face-to-face with a Captain on the local police force. Rya Haddon had worked with the likes of International Rescue before, establishing a bond of trust and mutual respect between herself and the men of International Rescue during numerous call-outs to the area after a series of earthquakes, aftershocks and unusual seismic activity. In addition to that, she had been a recent addition to the International Rescue team, accepting the position of a secret agent for the San Francisco area.

"Rya, what can we do for you?"

"It's more a matter of what I can do for you." She squinted around at the group. "Missing a person?" she concluded. "You came with five, and now there are only four of you."

"What can you do for us?" Scott repeated, terse.

Wordlessly, she held out a transparent Ziploc bag. Inside the bag lay a generic, old fashioned, mobile phone. "Someone handed this to the Chief, with instructions that it should be taken to you. Chief asked me to bring it to you guys, so here I am."

From inside the bag, the screen lit up. No number identified, though; no way of tracing the call to pinpoint its origin.

"They're making contact," John pointed out, ripping the phone out of the bag and thrusting it to Scott.

Catching the item deftly, Scott placed it to his ear. No video call function available on this model; sound only. Whoever had done this had planned well.

"Where is he?" Scott demanded without preamble.

"_Ah, International Rescue. Scott, I presume I'm speaking to. The Devil incarnate. The original Beelzebub. No manners? Is that any way to talk to the person who has the power to make or break your second little brother?"_

"Don't," he warned, voiced pitched at a deep growl. "_Don't_ fuck around with me! I am _not_ in the mood to be playing games, and you _do not_ want to make an enemy out of me! Now, where is he?"

"_You can't see him from where you are." _The creak of wood sneaked over the soundwaves. _"But I can see you."_

Scott spun around on the spot. Throngs of people, still in the area, possibly camouflaging their potential suspect.

"_I can see you!" _the voice sing-songed. "_Oh, yes, I can see you, in full, technicolour vision. Virgil could see you too, if his eyes were open. If he had his eyesight."_

From Mobile Control, Alan tried to wrestle the phone away from Scott. He had no idea what was being said, but the hot-headed Tracy in him dictated that he gave Virgil's captor a piece of his mind. Scott shrugged him off with difficulty.

"I want proof he's still alive and unharmed."

"_I can't do that,"_ the voice crooned back. _"But don't worry; I can't kill the face of Lucifer."_

Scott sagged slightly with immediate relief, although his worry increased exponentially.

"_Yet."_

* * *

><p>Jefferson Tracy swivelled on his chair, interlocking his fingers under his chin. His stomach rumbled, reminding him that it was breakfast time on Tracy Island, but he couldn't tear himself away from Command Centre until he knew his sons were back, safe and sound.<p>

A glance at the clock on the wall; they had been gone for longer than he had expected.

"Mr. Tracy?" Tin-Tin placed a small tray, consisting of toast, coffee and cereal under his nose. "Father would like to know if you wished to have a warm breakfast as well."

Jeff glanced up at Tin-Tin.

"He's making pancakes for the next generation of Tracys," she explained.

"Oh, no, thank you, Tin-Tin." He hesitated. "Well, maybe a short stack," he relented. After all, he was a Tracy man, and Tracy men ate when they were stressed.

"Of course." Tin-Tin tilted her head to the left, hair falling over her shoulder. "Mr. Tracy, the boys haven't called in again, have they?"

Jeff shook his head and Tin-Tin sighed, leaving the room. From the wall, Gordon's portrait started flashing. Jeff sat up to attention, establishing a link between them.

"How's the situation, Gordon? Have you got an estimated time of departure?"

"Not quite as yet, Dad," Gordon hedged. "Listen, Dad, there's been a bit of an… an unseen emergency."

"What kind of emergency?"

Gordon steeled himself, shooting a look at Alan. Alan shook his head and backed away. Gordon was on his own for this.

"Gordon, don't make me repeat myself."

"Virgil's missing." The ginger hadn't meant to say it quite so badly, quite so bluntly, but there was no way of sugar coating the news. "Well, that's not the exact truth. The truth is… the truth is that Virgil's been kidnapped."

Jeff stiffened, held his posture still. Ice had seized all his major organs, freezing his insides. He could have sworn that his heart stilled, just for a moment. His son, the son that most resembled his Lucy, had been taken from him, and there wasn't a damn thing he could have done about it. Hints of Virgil fluttered around his mind; images of a four year old Virgil playing the baby grand, albeit badly, there had never been a worse rendition of chopsticks until Gordon had come along… eight year old Virgil winning a blue ribbon at an art competition… fifteen year old Virgil scoffing six pints of ice-cream and gummy bears because Scott had told him it was the best way of curing a broken heart… seventeen year old Virgil earning his pilot wings… twenty one year old Virgil graduating Denver Tech School, top of his class. More contemporary memories of Virgil flooded Jeff's mind as well; the day Virgil agreed to join International Rescue, and most recently, Virgil's somewhat eventful wedding day. Jeff didn't think he had seen his third son so happy before that day, and he knew he couldn't afford to lose his third son.

"Dad?" Gordon's voice broke into Jeff's thoughts.

"Sorry, what was that?"

"I said that the local authorities and Agent 99 have been informed of the situation, and Rya and her team are more than happy to help out in our attempt to get Virgil. Also, Scott's just established that Virgil's still alive."

Jeff gasped in relief. "Oh, thank God!"

_Thanks, Luc, for keeping our boy safe._

"Dad, it gets worse."

Jeff looked on, grey eyes questioning. His son was alive. All of them were. There was no way the situation could get worse.

"Dad, we've just heard news regarding The Hood. He's escaped from prison."

* * *

><p>From the depths of darkness, Virgil somehow managed to rouse himself again. Hands bound, this time. Legs shackled. Chains too tight, biting into his skin like canines.<p>

Eyes dilated. He wondered if he'd been drugged.

Unlikely. His thoughts seemed lucid enough.

The room was odd, his brain told him. A shrine to him and his brothers, and not in a good way. Official documents, birth certificates, driver's and pilot's licences that had been Xeroxed were strewn on the floor, along with photocopies of passports of all the Tracy family – those by blood and those by marriage. The walls didn't appear to be in better condition, with magazine and newspaper cuttings plastered onto them.

Virgil was officially creeped out that someone could obsess this much over their lives. In a strange way, he felt violated; nothing about him had remained secret.

"Well, hello there, Beelzebub version 3.0. How nice of you to join me. I hope your nose doesn't hurt too much."

A flick across what was left of his nose tip. Virgil bit back the scream of agony that threatened to escape his bloodied lips. He wasn't going to give the son of a bitch the satisfaction. Instead, he winced, breathing deeply until the pain subsided.

"Not to sound clichéd," Virgil managed eventually, "but you'll never get away with this. The rest of my team will find me."

"Ah, yes, that is true. That is very true. But will they find you dead, or alive? My bet's on the former."

A pause. Virgil stiffened as ice-cold fingers scraped over his cheek.

"Don't worry, it won't happen straightaway. After all, my wife didn't have an instantaneous death. Neither did my children."

Virgil remained silent. He had a vague idea where this was going.

"The quake four years ago. Trapped under rubble of a shopping complex. You left them there; you refused to dig through the mess to save them with the drilly machine of yours. The Mole, I believe you christened it."

More silence from Virgil. There was a reason he hadn't scurried around in the rubble, and that was because the chances of anyone surviving were seldom to none. Instead, Alan, who had been acting as Field Commander while Scott was on Five, had focussed his rescue squad on a different area, where there were more viable hotspots registering on their equipment. It was for the greater good, Alan had justified, saving over two hundred people rather than just a handful.

"I dream about my little girl every night, see her arms outstretched for an angel in blue that never came. I see her waiting patiently for the fallen angel. I hear her screams, taste her terror. My sons, my two sons, they were no luckier than my little girl, my princess. They suffered, writhing in agony, until the end. As will you."

The crazed man pulled the pin out of a grenade, shoved it roughly into Virgil's mouth, securing it with ample amounts of duct tape.

Eyes dilated, honey burnt pupils wide open, trained down in panic at the explosive in his mouth.

"Your brothers have the same amount of time to find you as it did for my family to die. If they can't find you by four thirty, it's _sayonara, Satan._"

Deep breath in.

Deep breath out.

Quash the waves of revulsion, of fear, of sheer, unadulterated frustration.

Think; what would Scott do?

Oh, screw it, he'd be fretting too.

The man paced the room, each step matching the sound coming from the grenade to perfection, each step marking that death was imminent.

_Tick… tock…_

_Tick… tock…_


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer:** **The Thunderbirds do not belong to me. They are the intellectual and actual property of Gerry Anderson and his affiliates. Any original characters are a product of my imagination.**

**AN: Hooray! I have my Internet back! No more sitting in McDonald's like a loner to upload this. Thank you so much for the reviews, they really do mean a lot, knowing that people are enjoying watching Virgil suffer. I've just realised how sadistic that makes me. Is that a good thing?**

**This is most definitely part of the saga/series/linked stories I've been writing over the years, and is most definitely a sequel to "Hidden Identity" and stories set prior to that one. Needless to say, OCs established in the other tales will feature, briefly, in this, but I'm thinking it could still be understood if you haven't read them. At least, that's what I'm hoping for. Anyway, enough from me... hope you enjoy. :)**

Chapter Four

Small seismic activity in the vicinity of Virgil's mouth dragged him back to consciousness in a stream of agony. Eyes moved down of their own accord. It had felt like the grenade had exploded in his mouth, but it couldn't have; Virgil could see that the shell casing the explosive was still firmly lodged between his teeth.

Something had happened, though. Searing pain shot through his jaw, and he could feel pieces of his shattered wisdom teeth burrow their way through his gum line. The part of his nose bridge that was still attached to his skull had been propelled up, from the force of… whatever that had happened. He could feel the pressure building up.

Virgil groaned around the grenade, carefully, so as not to swallow any loose fragments of teeth.

"That, my friend," the captor crooned in his ear, "was the first hour mark. That pop you felt in your mouth? That was a small capsule of air, encased within the body of the grenade, disintegrating itself. Every hour, you'll feel something similar to that until the big grenade goes boom!"

Virgil mumbled, choking on his words.

"You see, this is a Matryoshka grenade. Inside the big cased grenade is a smaller one, and inside that is another smaller grenade, and so on. Each grenade has a separate detonation time; that's what makes them such a versatile weapon, one I can use effectively against you. Do you get the picture? It's like the Russian dolls. There'll be little pops, and then one big one!"

Virgil nodded, blinding pain shooting through his skull, dark spots dancing in his eyesight.

The door to the room Virgil was trapped in opened, and the sound of footsteps walking over the littered floor reminded Virgil of a hammer smashing bone, as paper crumpled under the weight of the second person. Virgil concluded that the psycho must have had an accomplice. It made sense; no one could have managed all of this by themselves.

"Have you set it up?" Psycho Number One demanded of Psycho Number Two. "And did you make the interception? Let's make the blonde one suffer too!"

"But of course," Psycho Number Two answered Psycho Number One, hint of a Malay accent tainting his voice. "We need to make all five faces of Syaitan suffer, as they have done to us. And yes, I have disabled the signal jammer from this location and moved it to the next one. The signal jammer has to be disabled if you want the plan to succeed."

Virgil prided himself on being a more than competent musician. As a musician, he was well used to listening to sounds and committing them to his long term memory. Even in his disorientated, pain fuelled, confused state, he recognised the voice. Couldn't for the life of him remember who it belonged to, but it was at least something.

"Have you fulfilled your role in this to perfection?" Psycho Two continued.

"Naturally. We've worked too hard to get one degenerate in our possession; I wouldn't throw it away over something as simple as this."

If Virgil could have talked, he would have pointed out that it was often the simple, minute details that would trip them up. He had experienced that first hand, many times on rescue missions.

"Four other Fallen Angels to cash in on; four different mini-disc recordings." Psycho Number One held out the discs, fanned like a deck of cards in his hand.

"Ah, yes, I see this disc is for Scott Tracy," the man with the Malaysian accent sustained his discussion. "One for Syaitan's Spawn, the creature who's foiled my plans too many times."

A brief flick of eyes up to his companion. Virgil noted that they glowed an ethereal yellow. Another memory stirred, frustrating Virgil, as he still couldn't place a name to the face of the newcomer.

"I hope you targeted the family he's started," Psycho Number Two muttered. "The comparisons between your family that was unwillingly snatched away from you, and his family; the one he doesn't deserve to have…"

A pause, breaking off to gauge his accomplice's reactions. He needed to push the right buttons, drive the man that was filled with grief, rage and an unsatisfied desire for revenge just over the edge. It would destroy him, cripple him emotionally and mentally, but the result would be worth it; he would take International Rescue down with him. Psycho Number Two wasn't a big fan of emotional discussions and persuasions, or teaming up with another person, but this time, the end justified the means.

"The physical similarities between your wife and his, the components that made up your family; loving wife, doting daughter, two sons to carry on the family name. Playing on that would push him to his breaking point. Doesn't it pain you to see that that man, the Devil's descendant, has everything you had, everything you ever wanted, and you don't? And his brothers are no better, letting him do that to you, of their own accord."

Psycho One nodded, cold rage bubbling through his veins from the toes upwards.

"It should have been you," the Malay man whispered, jerking one solitary family photo off the wall and ripping out the eldest brother. "Eliminate him, and you can take his place. All will be restored, as it should be."

"And the others," Psycho One replied in a whisper. "They're just as bad. They will be eliminated too."

"That's right," Psycho Two encouraged, eyes glowing yellow once more. "That's right; exterminate the vermin, and fall right into my trap."

The next thing Virgil saw was a blanket of darkness. He assumed, correctly, that a blindfold of some sort had been placed over his eyes. He'd have to rely on his two other senses to give him any bearings, as his sense of sight, taste and smell had been rendered useless.

Touch. He could feel one of the maniacs tightening the shackles at his ankles; tightening the knots that handcuffed his hands together so tight that blood couldn't circulate to his fingers. The other one grabbed him by the scruff of his neck, hauling him upright onto his feet before pushing him roughly to the floor.

Virgil turned his head to one side, ear to the floorboards, hoping he could detect any sound that would help him gain a vague idea of his location. It was futile; the surrounding area was quiet.

A sharp jab in the ribs with the steel capped toe that Virgil was acquainted with. He rolled away from it, a reflex action.

"Come on, faster than that!" the Malay accented voice taunted, with another well aimed kick to Virgil's stomach. It was sure to leave a bruise on internal organs, not to mention swelling and excruciating amounts of distress to Virgil.

Virgil rolled again. Anything to get away from that unrelenting kicking. He could feel his ribs splinter on the third kick, hear his breathing hitch as he wheezed his way through the attack. Another kick, this time closer to the neck. Virgil dodged, letting gravity lead his body where it may.

_Gravity,_ Virgil thought, as his limp body tumbled down the flight of stairs, head first, as his captors had intended him to, _was a bitch. Clearly, she has it in for me. Couldn't give me a soft landing, could she?_

Dozing, semi aware of what was happening; Virgil received a blow to his temple. Not a steel capped boot, he realised; the texture was all wrong – smooth, cold and solid, it had to have been a metal instrument of some sort.

"So long, Syaitan," the captor with the accent muttered before delivering his final blow.

In that moment, lightning struck Virgil. He knew who one of his adversaries was. He could easily identify his captor to federal agents, if he survived this. Two words to identify half of the dastardly duo. Two words that chilled him right to the core, two words to put the fear of God into him; after all, his family had suffered tremendous losses at the hands of this man. Two words he had to remember, at all costs.

Two words.

The Hood.

* * *

><p>The pancakes lay on the plate, drowned in copious amounts of maple syrup, and Jefferson Tracy picked absentmindedly at the edges of it, shredding his pickings to bits. As Commander in Charge, he had to step up to the plate and aid, guide and assist his operatives in the field.<p>

First things first, though. With the news that the Hood had escaped from a maximum security prison cell – which, given the height of security prisons employed, was a feat in itself – he had to make sure that the rest of his family were safe. The mad man had targeted the island before, and Jeff had learnt that it paid to be vigilant, even when he was at home, when a known enemy was on the loose. The easiest way to establish that the home-based Tracys were safe was to call a family meeting.

Tin-Tin was the first to enter, firmly grasping the hand of her and Alan's three and a half year old son. At Jeff's gesture, she sat down on the leather sofa, lifting Leroy onto her lap, automatically pulling the strand of hair her son was tugging on out of his hand.

Following behind her was Scott's family; his wife, Tash, leading the way by herding their eldest children into the room, balancing their screeching baby on her hip. Jeff winced; he had forgotten just how much Scott had fussed when he was teething, and it was apparent that Scott's son took after him in that respect. Settling down on the sofa, the auburn haired woman waited expectantly.

Finally, Kyrano and Virgil's wife, Augustina – Gus, for short – walked into the room. Immediately picking up on Jeff's tension, Kyrano placed a hand on Jeff's shoulder. The elderly man wasn't huge on physical contact, but during this time, it was used as a means of grounding Jeff, so he had a present source of support.

"What's happened?" Gus asked, chewing nervously on her lip. She, too, had picked up on the tension Jeff was radiating. "Has something gone wrong on the rescue?"

Not one for sugar coating, Jeff responded with a simple yes. "Virgil's been seized by one or more adversaries. We have one potential suspect, as to determine who's taken him."

"What?" Gus asked incredulously. "How can he have been abducted?"

Looking up from where Nick was gnawing on her finger, Tash pierced Jeff with a gaze. "The others are safe?"

"They're looking for him. But, yes, they are accounted for, and safe, for the most part."

"Mr. Tracy, who do you suspect has taken Virgil?" Tin-Tin continued.

A heavy swallow.

A pregnant pause, each giving birth to their own pause.

"The Hood," Jeff said, expression unreadable.

A gasp of horror from Tin-Tin, as she shared a glance with Tash. Having been acquainted with the Hood in the past, they drew their respective children in closer to them, protective lioness instinct becoming more apparent as the reality of the threat that loomed over them. No way was that psycho bastard going to harm their offspring while they were around.

"Gus, the boys, they won't come home without him," Jeff reassured, knowing his sons as well as he did. "I promise you, they won't return without him."

"But will he be dead or alive?" she retorted, biting her hand as she fled the room.

In the aftermath, Jeff almost missed the flashing lights on John's portrait.

"Go ahead, John. Has there been any news?"

John bobbled his head, blond forelock falling over his eyes. "Agent 99 informed the FBI of the situation, just as a precaution. The FBI team sent the note that was left behind off for some tests."

"There was a note?" Jeff seized on this news the same way a kitten would claw onto a ball of string. "_Why _was I not informed about this earlier?"

John screwed his face up into a puzzled frown. "Didn't Gordon inform you? He told us he did."

Perhaps that was true, Jeff realised, and that he had zoned out when Gordon was telling him. It was possible; Jeff was only human, after all.

"Well, anyway, the FBI came back with a rather interesting find," John continued, as though there had been no digression at all. "Okay, you'll need to know what the note looked like to understand the results, so I'll give you a brief description. Plain white paper, with newspaper cut-out letters arranged and glued down to read 'I have him.' Now, the interesting part comes from the lettering itself. According to ink tests done on the note, the letters were traced back to not only a particular newspaper, but the ink quality was traced to a specific day."

"Which day was it?" Hands hovering over the touch screen of the data pad on his desk, Jeff was ready to review any report of a rescue mission, just on the off-chance that it would help get Virgil back home faster.

"About four years ago, dating back to the San Franciscan earthquake we were called out to."

"Alright, John," Jeff hauled up the relevant report and projected it onto a glass screen so he could view it more easily. With more survivors than fatalities, the media had heralded it a successful mission, full of praise for the men from International Rescue. However, due to the sheer number of fatalities that had occurred, the Tracy boys disagreed, believing that they should have been able to reduce the number of people that had died. In their books, the mission was considered a failure.

"Now, explain the significance, John."

"The local law enforcement don't think it's more than a coincidence, but Scott and I think otherwise." A pause to gather his thoughts. "Together, we theorised that maybe a person who had lost a loved one in the earthquake took Virg, as an act of revenge. There may be no connection to the Hood whatsoever."

A flurry of movement in the background.

"Listen, Dad, I've got to go. Scott's beckoning for me. We'll give you another update once we have something more substantial."

Saying that, John disconnected the link, leaving Tracy Island cut-off from the rescue zone.

* * *

><p>Held in the Field Commander's hand, the phone rang again. Scott itched to pick it up, but an order issued by an FBI agent told him to let the phone ring for a few more seconds.<p>

"We've got a location!"

Alan rushed over to the relevant agent, using their technology to transfer the fix from the FBI agent's laptop to Thunderbird Five. From there, Brains would be able to reformat the data, rewriting the data from digital binary coding to a more advanced code so that it was compatible with the boys' watches.

Behind him, John and Gordon stood, thick headphones snapped over their ears, so that they could listen in on the conversation. More ears were better than less, the IR team had convinced the agents, subtly pointing out that they may have been able to identify a clue the agents would miss.

"Remember, don't get them angry," Rya reminded Scott. "You need to stall for as long as possible so we can get a more exact fix on him. That way, it's more likely we'll get Virgil back alive."

"I know!" Scott snapped, fed up of being told the same thing, over and over again. All he wanted was to get Virgil back to Base, along with John, Gordon and Alan, safe and sound. He didn't give a damn of what it would cost, even if it meant sacrificing himself to save the others.

"Listen, I'm sorry," Scott apologised, realising he had overstepped a boundary. "I'm just a little on edge right now."

"I understand. Now, go answer that phone. Let's not keep whoever it is waiting any longer."

With a nod of his head, Scott raised the phone to his ear. "I want to talk to him," Scott demanded, employing his steely, don't-mess-with-me tone.

"_I'm sorry; Beelzebub can't answer the phone right now. Perhaps I could take a message."_

"Don't you dare!" Voice nothing more than a harsh whisper, deadliness oozing with every syllable. "I warned you not to fuck around with me, because you've just royally pissed me off! And, I'm telling you, you do not want a pissed off me on your tail!"

"_So, you don't want me to take the message to Satan?"_

"Why can't I talk to him?" A brief look over at John. John gestured that Scott had to keep the responder on the line. Heaving in a breath, Scott nodded, showing he had understood.

"_You're a military man, Scott; you tell me if you can talk around a grenade that's been shoved into your mouth."_

Gordon gripped the shoulder of his assigned FBI agent painfully, his nails digging into the agent's skin through her shirt. Grenades, that weapon choice held a plethora of impacts. Some were slow detonating, designed to prolong pain, draw a person's agony out until they snapped. Others were fast, with a wide impact radius, designed to create mass destruction and devastation. Gordon prayed the grenade Virgil had been subjected to was the former one; it still left them a window of opportunity to find him and disarm the explosive device.

"He'd better not be harmed," Scott spat out through gritted teeth. "Because if he is, you will pay. And when I find you, because I _will_ find you, I will make sure you suffer. I will rip your head from your neck with my hands if he's been compromised in any way!"

A cold, chilling laugh. _"You can try, anyway. Now, I trust you've been tracking the location of this signal."_

"And what if we have?"

"_Oh, Satan's Spawn, that's exactly what I've been counting on."_

"You want us to find you?"

"_No. Far from it. I'm just… recreating a circumstance."_

"What circumstance?" Coldness from Scott, a chill factor that could rival deep space. In fact, Scott was hoping that this would offer some explanation as to why Virgil had been kidnapped.

"_Four years ago, there was an earthquake here. Do you remember that?"_

Closing his eyes, Scott understood. Retribution. John and his hypothesis had been correct all along. Thanks to their collective catastrophe, Virgil was now paying penance for their failure.

"I'm not likely to forget."

"_You left my wife behind. You left my daughter and my sons behind. The autopsy reports said that they were alive for five hours. Had you looked hard enough, you would have found them. You would have saved them, and none of us would be here, like this, today."_

The unspoken accusation hung in the air, a heavy blanket, sombre, over the already tense atmosphere.

"_Now, you've got just under four hours to save Virgil. I've been fair; I'm offering you the chance to save him, through a series of mind games. Should you fail, and you will, the grenade will go boom! Virgil gets to burn in the pits of Hell as he meets his maker, and you all suffer because he's gone. So, you need to be tracking the location, if you want to get Virgil back."_

Stony silence from Scott. Mind games. What the hell did the guy mean by that?

"_I hope you're up to date with pop culture references._ _Time's a tickin', International Rescue!"_

Frustrated beyond belief, Scott regrouped with the other Tracys.

"It's a trap," Gordon pointed out immediately. "Don't do it, Scott. No man is stupid enough to do this."

"I'm with Gordon," Alan agreed. "Brains sent through the demographic statistics of the location. Structurally, it's been urbanised, but population wise, it's a ghost town. Don't do it."

John shook his head. "Look, you're Field Commander; whatever you say goes, and I'll back your play, but I'm not happy with the way that went down. For once, Gordon's right. It does appear to be a trap, and with Virgil gone already, I don't want to risk losing anyone else."

"You're not the only one who isn't happy, John," Scott pointed out. "But if anyone else has any alternatives to get Virgil back, now would be a good time to share them."

Another silence.

"No one? Then this is all we've got."

Alan opened his mouth to protest, but Scott forestalled his argument by holding up his hand.

"No, Alan. We're doing this. I don't like walking into traps, just as much as any of you, but if this is what we have to do to get Virgil back, then this is what we have to do. I'm _not_ losing one of my men, simply because we did not follow up on all the leads we were given.

Alan opened his mouth, once again, only to be cut off by Scott.

"If anyone in this team is unhappy with the way this is going down, you will be relieved from this mission, and you are more than welcome to stay behind in Thunderbird Two. I am not leaving Virgil in that man's hands, if he's giving us the opportunity to get him back. Now, are you with me, or are you staying behind?"

John didn't hesitate. "I told you; I'll back your play."

"I'm not staying in Thunderbird Two!" Gordon appeared affronted at the thought. Guilt fuelled him to find Virgil; he was the operative who was partnered with Virgil, he had the opportunity of preventing Virgil's kidnap, and he didn't. He needed to get Virgil back.

Alan sighed. Outnumbered, and he had no intention of being left behind. "I have my reservations about this, but I guess it's all for one, and one for all."

Scott nodded in acknowledgement to all of them, though in truth, he didn't expect any other answer from them. Taking charge, military training coming into play, his mind began to formulate a plan.

"Alan, give Dad a brief status report," he commanded. "Gordon, swap the tranq guns for the Glocks. Take as much extra ammo with you as possible."

Gordon raised his eyebrows. It was only on rare occasions that they swapped the tranquiliser guns for real ones. Even then, they had to justify their decision to their father before he could officially endorse the move. With Scott breaking strict protocols that had been enforced since the inception of International Rescue, Gordon understood just how dire the situation was.

"Don't just stand there!" Scott roared, gesticulating wildly to Thunderbird Two's supply bay. "Move it! The guy is armed, and I am not taking any chances with Virgil still out there!"

"Scott," John's voice, little more than a whisper. It had a somewhat calming effect on Scott. "Scott, I know what you're thinking, and I'm telling you, don't do it."

"The son of a bitch wouldn't be the first person I've killed. Not by a long shot," Scott muttered, blue eyes as cold and hard as a glacier. "We're not choir boys in the Air Force, John."

"I know that," John placated. "But there is a significant difference between shooting a plane out of the sky, where the enemy has the chance to eject and survive, and shooting a man in close range. You can't deny it, and you are not a killer. Not in that sense."

Scott drew himself up to his full height, giving him the height advantage over his platinum blond haired brother. Two inches was all it took.

"You listen to this, John, because I'm only going to say this once," Scott seethed, jabbing him in the chest. "I will do whatever it takes to get Virgil back. _Whatever _it takes. Understand?"

John stepped back, observed Scott. Really observed him.

"All too well," he murmured, leaving to fetch the portable first aid kit. "Just do me a favour; exhaust all other possibilities before you shoot to kill."

"That was the plan, anyway," Scott affirmed. "But, we still need to be prepared."

A few valuable moments were spent, waiting for the last of the team to arrive. At the front of the pack, Scott led his team away from the site.

The race against time to save Virgil was on.


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer: The Thunderbirds do not belong to me. They are the intellectual and actual property of Gerry Anderson and his affiliates. Any original characters are a product of my imagination.**

**AN: ****I must sound like a broken record, but thank you so much for the kind reviews. They really do mean a lot, and it's encouraging to know that people are enjoying this story. A massive thanks to to Teobi for clarifying some rating dilemmas I've been having. Consequently, I've decided to bump the rating up to an 'M' from the next chapter onwards, just to be on the safe side. **

** This is most definitely part of the saga/series/linked stories I've been writing over the years, and is most definitely a sequel to "Hidden Identity" and stories set prior to that one. Needless to say, OCs established in the other tales will feature, **briefly, in this, but I'm thinking it could still be understood if you haven't read them**. Anyway, enough from me... hope you enjoy. :)**

Chapter Five

The door to Virgil's suite remained resolutely shut. Standing timidly outside, Tin-Tin contemplated whether she should ask permission to go in. Thumb hovering over the keypad, so she could punch in her code to open the door, the decision was taken out of her hands.

"You don't have to float outside, y'know."

Tin-Tin took it as a cue to enter. The first thing that popped into her mind was quite possibly the stupidest question that could have ever existed. "Are you okay, Gus?"

A flash of brown darting through a curtain of blond hair. "Everyone keeps asking me that."

"It's because we care about you, and we know how much this hurts." Looking down at the data pad, she swiped her finger over the digital photo album, changing the picture. It was a picture of the Tracy family gathered around Virgil and Gus on their wedding day.

"Virgil loves this photo," Gus stated.

"He loves his family," Tin-Tin agreed. "Gus, Virgil will be alright."

"How do you know?"

"I have a little faith in him," Tin-Tin replied, drawing her sister-in-law in for a comforting hug. "Besides, do you really think Scott would leave without him?"

"Absolutely not," a third voice called from the door, tacitly asking for permission to enter the suite. At Gus' nod, Tash sat down on the sofa beside Gus. "Scott and Virgil, they're hyphenated. Twins born three years apart."

"I know." A pause. "Do you know what the kicker is? I don't even remember if I told Virgil I loved him before he left. We were arguing about something that seems so stupid, and I don't remember if I told him before he left."

"He knows you do," Tash reassured her. "When he comes home, you can just remind him that you do."

"If he comes home," Gus muttered, fresh wave of tears springing to her eyes.

"No," Tin-Tin corrected gently. "_When_ Virgil comes home."

* * *

><p>The blindfold remained planted firmly over his eyes, but Virgil could sense that there had been a dramatic change in temperature. He shivered, the loss of blood and body progressing into a state of shock making him more vulnerable and susceptible to the adverse effects of the cooler air. Cooler by a few degrees, which wasn't much, but to Virgil, it made all the difference.<p>

Another miniature earthquake in his mouth. The second – or third; Virgil had lost count, amidst the haze of pain – air bubble had popped, driving more teeth in all directions. He groaned loudly as his pain crescendoed before plateauing off.

Some teeth burrowed their way under the gum line, while other moved up. The chestnut haired rescuer was pretty sure he had just felt one, sharp, pointed tooth skewer its way through his lip. Blood oozed out from the slit, tracking its way slowly around the grenade, before pooling in a dimple on his chin. It was wet, sticky and annoying, but Virgil couldn't gather any strength to raise his hands or arms. Now broken, Virgil determined that his radius and ulna in both arms had been snapped in such a manner that it had speared its way through his tawny skin, and most of his fingers had been dislocated.

_Well,_ he thought dryly to himself, trying to find something to remain positive about. _That's one way of getting the lip piercing I've always wanted. Think I can kiss my canines goodbye as well. And my piano playing and my painting._

The thought filled him with dread. Losing his two main ways of expressing his feelings and emotions – even if it was temporarily – would devastate him.

_Oh, God, why don't they just end my suffering now! It'd be an act of mercy, compared to this._

"Virgil? Is that you?"

A softer voice – a soprano, second – Virgil registered. A familiar voice, too. It belonged, he realised, to Jade Mackenzie, reporter for the newspaper, _The New York Editor,_ and coincidently, John's girlfriend.

Or maybe the stakes were higher, after John's trip to the mainland, Virgil mused. Maybe John had asked the question he wanted to ask and Jade had given him the answer he wanted to hear. That would make her his fiancée.

Practically family.

"It is you," she confirmed. Moments later, the blindfold had been lowered and Virgil could see again. Not that there was much to see, just some shadows in the dark.

"John didn't tell me about the… primary business," she snarked, fear lancing through her eyes. "I take it he's a member too. After all, it wouldn't take a genius to figure out that this is a family run business, given that I've successfully identified you."

Virgil neither confirmed or denied her ramblings.

"So, is he?" she demanded.

Virgil nodded.

"And the other brothers?"

Virgil nodded once more. He couldn't see the problem in that, since John intended to marry her, the risk of a security breach was minimal.

"Do you know where we are?"

Virgil shot her a look. Dumb question; he had been blinded by a piece of cloth for God knows how long.

"Do you know what we do next?"

Virgil glanced down at the weapon in his mouth. For him, the answer was obvious. He looked at her, conveying his message through his eyes, his only form of communication.

_We wait for their next move._

* * *

><p>The journey to their next destination wasn't far. It was a twenty minute walk south from the disaster zone. Alan figured they would have covered ground faster if they had taken the Hoverjets, but Scott had vehemently vetoed that suggestion. And with Scott in uber-Air-Force-Commander mode, Alan didn't think he would waste time, or energy, arguing with Scott. In this situation, Scott's word was law, and that law was obeyed to the letter at all times.<p>

"Can't risk leaving the technology out in the open," Scott had said, defending his stand on the Hoverjet suggestion. "Not with the Hood running free and some madman targeting us. We go on foot. It'll take longer, but it'll give us a better chance to scope out the landscape and surrounding areas."

And so they had walked, the four of them, plus Rya and a few FBI agents for back up.

Land was built up, a mix of modern, Western and Gothic architecture, but barren of people, as they had expected it. It reminded Gordon of a ghost town. All that was needed was a saloon with wooden slatted, swinging doors, and a scrap of tumble weed blowing in the wind, and the scene would have been set.

The group approached some Gothic style, iron cast gates in stony silence. At that point, the FBI agents took up positions, strategically covering the land so that no potential escape of fugitives could occur. Armed with snipers, they were well suited to fire long range, instead of short. Strategically, it made more sense to do that.

Scott turned to his men, surprised to see Rya standing alongside with him. He shook his head.

"It's too dangerous, and I don't want to be the one that's responsible for your death."

Rya cocked an eyebrow. "Am I, or am I not an International Rescue Secret Agent?"

"You are. But you're not coming in with us; you're not responsible for what happened many years ago."

"So, don't you think I know the risks? Scott, it's not just your team, it's my team too. I'm armed, I'm trained in hand-to-hand combat, and I'm a team player; I'm in no worse position for this fight than you are. You'll need all the hands you can get in there."

She had made a valid point, and Scott could find no flaw in her argument. Nor did he have the time to argue with her, and he figured that five eyes and ears were better than four.

Gathering his group in a huddle, Scott ran over the proposed plan.

"Weapons drawn and armed. If we get to call the shots here, and I'm thinking we won't, but if we do, we're buddy working. Gordon, Alan, pair up and don't leave each other. John, Rya, you two go together. I'll fly solo this time. If you see the insurgent armed, do whatever is necessary to defend yourself. Shoot to kill if you have to, but only as a last resort; we're International Rescue, not murderers. However, if you feel it is absolutely necessary for self-defence, you do it. No questions asked. Understood?"

A general murmur of assent. No one looked at all pleased that they had been issued with a shoot to kill order. The only reprieve was that they had to individually judge what constituted as a direct threat on their life, leaving them a little bit of wiggle room to disobey that particular instruction. Scott was smart that way, leaving his comrades a loophole to use if they didn't feel comfortable with making that call.

"Remember, the kidnapper mentioned something about pop culture references, and they're probably hints to where Virgil is, so watch out for them," John reminded.

"Good point, John," Scott said, storing extra ammo and a small first aid kit in canisters on his sash, just in case. "Okay, everyone, keep the lines of communications open at all times, and alert the other parties if there's a problem. Stay safe, guys, and watch your back."

Automatically, the iron gates swung open, inwards, allowing the small party to enter. Alan paused, lagging behind as he spotted a small cardboard plaque tied to the railings of the gate.

"Watch your steps," he read aloud, slowly, chewing over the words. "Watch your steps. Hey, Gordon, what do you think it means?"

Gordon shrugged, turning to John. "Be careful? What kind of pop culture reference can you get from that?"

The cogs were visibly turning in John's mind, blue eyes narrowed in concentration. "Hitchcock."

"Huh?"

"Alfred Hitchcock," John explained, scratching his cranium. "He adapted the book for a film. It was called _The 39 Steps._"

"What was it about?" Scott demanded, needing to know any piece of information that could help Virgil, assembling his group in a horizontal line.

The blonde's eyebrows furrowed together, more cogs visibly turning in his mind as he tried to remember the plot of the novel or movie.

"If memory serves correctly, it was about a person that's been investigating the selling of technology for a high price. If we take it at face value, we could be looking at someone kidnapping Virgil to lure us to them. That way, they can exchange Virgil for our technology," he theorised.

"And if that theory's correct," Scott growled, voice heavy with suppressed rage, dragging his hand down the length of his face, "We're back to assuming that the Hood's at the bottom of this. What I wouldn't do to kill that little bastard. Should have left the bastard to rot when I had the chance."

Unsteady amber eyes regarded him. Gordon wondered what Scott meant, as did the others. It must have been on a rescue that only required Virgil and Scott, leaving the others out of the loop. Those two brothers were extremely dark horses at times.

"Back to the point," Alan interjected. "_The 39 Steps _relevance?"

"Look at where we're standing," John instructed. "And now look at how the buildings are spread on this compound. They're just under 130 feet away. Based on the assumption that each footstep is three feet, then to get to our locations, it should take about 39 steps."

A light burst forth from one of the window of a house. The streams shone down onto the ground, landing just short of Scott's boots.

A quick glance up through glacier blue eyes. "Looks like I'm up. Stay safe, keep in contact and count your steps. I think John's onto something there."

Without looking back, Scott prowled forward towards the house until he was out of sight. The light then moved to John, leading him off to the left. With a flick of his head, John and Rya headed off, hoping that the light would lead them one step closer to Virgil.

Gordon and Alan were the only ones remaining near the perimeter of the compound. Gordon looked uneasily at Alan. Alan stared back at Gordon, just as uneasily. Neither brother knew what to expect. The tension in the air could have been cut with a blunt knife.

"Okay," Alan snapped, after two minutes of palpable silence. Patience was a virtue he had not been fortunate enough to be possessed with. "I can't take this any longer. I'm going off to the right."

"Alan, no!" Gordon protested, but to no avail. Alan had marched off, full of righteous indignation, towards the small shack located on the right of the house. With a sense of foreboding, Gordon had no choice but to follow.

* * *

><p>The house Scott had been led into was exactly identical to the house he had spent his teenaged years in with his grandmother in Kansas. The resemblance, from the furniture presentation in each room to the design on the wallpaper, was uncanny, to the point of unnerving.<p>

Everything was identical, right down to the creaking floorboards on the second, fifth and eleventh stair on the stairwell.

Isolated though, which was unusual in the Kansas Tracy household. The original was a cosmos of life, with at least one set of feet thundering up and down the stairs at regular intervals. The replica house was far too quiet compared to Scott's recollections.

Warily, he prowled around the second level of the house. It consisted of the bedrooms that the Tracy boys had stayed in when they were younger. Kicking one of the many doors opened, he recognised it as the room he shared with John. It was just how he remembered it, with glow in the dark stars plastered over John's bed and a poster of an F-14 hanging over his. The room was empty, though, so he backed out, carefully, eyes constantly scanning around for unbidden surprises.

Up another flight of stairs, this time leading into what should have been the attic. This door needed a good dose of WD-40, squeaking in protest as he kicked it open, hands steady on his Glock. Should have seen it as a warning.

Two steps in. The floorboards groaned under the considerable body mass of the Field Commander.

Another step. Shadows taunted him from the sides of the wall. He span around stupidly, gun trained to fire at any sign of movement, but the room was clear. He was the only occupant.

One more step. The feel of the ground beneath his feet changed. It became more spongier, yielding more as he placed his foot onto it.

A definitive sound. Scott's heart slammed against his ribcage as his mind registered the noise. He hadn't heard that since his time in active warfare in the Air Force. The click that echoed chillingly around the room told him all he needed to know.

The place, the whole compound was wired with explosives, and he had just stepped on the pressure switch that would trigger substantial amounts of ammunition. If he took his foot off the switch, he was certain he would doom his brothers to a fiery death.

Fan-bloody-tastic.

* * *

><p>John, for some bizarre reason, had found himself locked in a room, no bigger than the size of a prison cell. Walking to his destination, he had determined that everything in the compound was remotely controlled by sensors and electronics. The sliding door had opened for him, but before his search buddy could join him, the door to the room slid shut with a hiss. Consequently, Rya was locked outside, and John was trapped inside in the impenetrable fortress. At least, he hoped she was outside and hadn't fallen victim to anything more sinister.<p>

"John to Scott," he said, eyes wide as he drank in the decoration to his prison. Sitting cross-legged on the concrete floor, he thumbed through the book that had been left for him. "Come in Scott."

"_Go ahead, John."_

"I have something."

"_What is it?"_

"The place I'm at, it's…" John trailed off, unsure of how to continue. "There's _To Kill a Mockingbird _here. But instead of mockingbird, whoever took Virg scratched out the mocking part of it and replaced it with thunder. It now reads _To Kill a Thunderbird._"

Through the communication line in his watch, John could hear Scott curse up a storm.

"_John, do you remember what the book was about?"_

"Nope," he replied, shaking his head despondently. "But I think the title says it all."

"_You've got a point, there, John," _Scott agreed. He added one more word of warning. "_John, the place is wired to explosive devices and pressure switches act as triggers. Watch where your feet land, because I've already activated one."_

"FAB, Scott," John acknowledged. Out from his peripheral vision, John could see a sparkle, a stark contrast to the grey, dull surroundings. Curiosity getting the better of him, John scrambled towards it, greedily grabbing the item.

In the palm of his hand lay a ring he was familiar with. It was one John had designed himself and proposed with. A strangled gasp as realisation hit him with the force of a freight train.

"_John? What's wrong? Talk to me, bro!"_

"Scott," John forced the words out, wanting to deny it, quashing the waves of panic, but unable to refute solid evidence that had been presented to him. "Scott, whoever took Virgil has Jade as well. Scott, they have my fiancée!"

* * *

><p>Hot headed Alan had come to a dead end in the compound. Nothing for him to examine above his head, and nothing visible below his feet. His only lead was a lever that protruded out from a concealed wall. His hand hung over it as he mentally tossed up the pros and cons of pulling the lever.<p>

"Alan, don't do it!" Gordon yelled, sprinting towards his little brother, skidding to a stop just before the trip wire Alan had managed to avoid.

"I have to," Alan replied evenly. "There's nothing else for us here, no other leads, and I want to get Virg back ASAP. It's got to be this way."

The towhead took a deep breath as he rested his hand against the lever. It felt cool and solid, curled up within his fist, and he plunged his arm down.

Gordon lunged forward, ready to stop Alan. The toe of his boot caught on the trip wire, igniting an explosion that was powerful enough to throw Gordon a few fair feet away from Alan. A limp rag doll, the read head's torso flew through the air before landing, crumpled, on the dirt ground.

By the time Gordon had determined that he had only sustained minor injuries – a few bruised ribs, a sprained ankle and a head laceration that wasn't too deep, thanks to the way he fell – the smoke from the explosion had cleared.

Alan had gone.


	6. Chapter 6

**Disclaimer:** **The Thunderbirds do not belong to me. They are the intellectual and actual property of Gerry Anderson and his affiliates. Any original characters are a product of my imagination.**

**AN: Since this has moved to an 'M" rating, the Plot Bunny of Angst and Doom has decided that she wants to pull out all the stops. Having said that, the muse has stepped up her game to include some more adult implications in this chapter. **

**This is most definitely part of the saga/series/linked stories I've been writing over the years, and is most definitely a sequel to "Hidden Identity" and stories set prior to that one. Needless to say, OCs established in the other tales will feature in this. Anyway, enough from me... hope you enjoy. :)**

Chapter Six

Tracy Island may have appeared to have been a tropical paradise from the outset, but the atmosphere inside the luxury villa told a different story. Behind the mahogany desk, Jeff was super glued to his chair, his once steaming mug of coffee lay long forgotten. Chin resting on interlocked fingers, Jeff was so caught up in his own anxiety, worry and distress that he had managed to block out the surrounding environment. The rescue, and the events that had transpired afterwards, was Jeff's primary focus; his attention was trained onto that, and nothing else could distract him.

The flashing eyes of John's portrait drew him out of his thoughts. Shaking himself out of the fog he was in, Jeff rubbed weary hands over his face.

"Go ahead, Brains," he answered the call.

"T-t-the s-s-situation, uh, appears to, uh, h-h-have worsened," Brains said, stuttering becoming more pronounced as his worry increased exponentially. "Alan's t-t-transmitter, uh, has gone o-o-off-grid."

Jeff's heart stilled, just for a fraction of a millisecond. There were only two plausible explanations for this situation. The first explanation was that the kidnappers had simply destroyed Alan's watch, like they had done with Virgil's. Alan would still be alive, and his other sons would still have a chance to save him. The second theory didn't even bear thinking about. Jeff had already lost his wife too early; he wasn't about to let go of his youngest son too.

"And the others? They're still registering, right?"

"Yes, Mr. Tracy."

"Well, at least that's something, then," he muttered to himself. "Okay, Brains, keep monitoring the situation."

"FAB," Brains replied, stuttering. With that, he terminated the link, leaving Jeff to his own thoughts.

* * *

><p>From where he stood, statue still, foot quaking on the pressure switch, the Field Commander could visibly see billows of smoke wafting out of a shack on his right. No Alan or Gordon in sight in the compound below, so he could only assume that they had been in the shack at the time of ignition.<p>

"Alan," he said calmly into his watch, despite the panic that rose up within him. "Alan, can you hear me?"

No answer.

"Alan?"

Dead quiet.

"Gordon, then. Gordon, can you hear me?"

"'M here, Scott, receiving you loud, but not clear," Gordon replied through a cloud of static.

"Are you okay? I saw a shack or a shed go up in a puff of smoke. And is Alan with you?"

"The mushroom cloud you saw was not a hallucination," Gordon confirmed, rubbing at the cut on his forehead that was bleeding profusely. "And Alan was with me."

"Was? What do you mean, _was?_ I don't like the past tense here."

"I mean, he and I were in the shed together, when he found a lever that opened up a trap door. He pulled on the lever. I tried to stop him. In doing so, I disconnected a trip wire I hadn't seen. By the time I had recovered and the smoke had cleared, Alan had vanished into thin air. No sign that he ever set foot in that place."

A deep breath in. "Right. Gordon, connect up with John and Rya and meet me in the attic of the big house in the compound. We need to regroup and strategize."

"FAB, Scott. See you in a few."

The prospect of the entire compound exploding was the only thing that kept Scott's body upright, foot firmly planted to the switch. Otherwise, he thought his knees would have jack-knifed from under him, the guilt he felt at leading two of his little brothers, the ones he was meant to protect, bringing him to his knees, quite literally.

Steps could be heard, the rumbling growing louder as his remaining brothers approached him. His Spiderman-like sixth sense coming into play, he ordered them to stop at the doorframe.

"Rya Haddon's gone missing too," John stated without preamble. "Listen, I've discovered something about this place; everything is operated remotely by sensors. I can't tell you whether they're motion sensors, light sensors or weight sensors, but the sensors control the electronic functioning of this hell-hole."

The blonde's brow furrowed, a completely plausible idea forming in his mind.

"Scott, if I can find the computer and the relevant programming that's been linked to the sensors, I could possibly overwrite it programming of my own. That way, at least we'll hold some cards in this ridiculous game of cat and mouse."

"No! John, we stick together from now onwards. You'll be too much of an easy target if you venture out by yourself." Scott shifted forward, moving his weight from one leg to the other. Tentatively, he waited to see if anything would happen. To his immense relief, nothing drastic or immediate happened.

Gordon, meanwhile, had been rendered speechless by the montage of photos and documents in the attic. "Everything about us is on here. Do you have any idea how creepy this is? Nothing, and I mean nothing, has been kept sacred."

Baby steps, just to avoid any more hidden surprises, Gordon made his way through the room, sifting through the Xeroxed documents. John made his way into the room as well, stopping short of Scott, bending down and ripping out floorboards to see how the pressure switch was connected to an explosive device. The pressure switch was a rudimentary model, and with his training in working for IR, John knew that it wouldn't take much to disarm the switch so Scott could move without the fear of detonating the device.

"Birth certificates, passports, first aid certificates, diplomas, bachelor degrees, master certificates, marriage certificates…" Gordon's hands stilled as his eyes scanned the next few pieces of paper. "Death certificates for all of us, with today's date. I don't think we're getting out of this alive."

A panicked look shared between the three members of International Rescue. That was how far the abductors were willing to go. There was no doubt in their mind that if they didn't find Alan and Virgil, the death certificates would have proved useful.

"Did you like that particular finishing touch?"

Having never heard the voice interspersed with such hatred, but recognising it immediately, Gordon spun around, coming face to face with Rya Haddon, the person he thought was on their side and working with them, pointing her service revolver straight at them. Instinctively he drew his Glock out of his holster. When he was staring down a barrel of a loaded gun, he had no problems with drawing his weapon.

"What are you doing?" John asked, slowly, fathoming out the change of sides while he helped Scott pivot around.

"Isn't it obvious, Tracy? You've been had. I've double crossed you. It was too easy, simply because you lot are just too trusting," Rya replied, silkily, sinisterly. "Why am I doing all of this? I guess it is something you'll want to know, you _deserve_ to know."

Silence reigned, once again. Scott used the time to put the puzzle pieces together to form a whole picture. There had been no phone handed into the Chief of Police; Haddon had bagged the phone and pulled it out herself when she had seen Virgil had been taken. She was the one who had alerted the FBI of the situation, thereby ensuring that they would be able to lock onto a location that would lead them here.

She was right, Scott realised, mentally kicking himself. They were just too trusting; no-one had thought to verify her claims or challenge her issues out in the field. Virgil, and quite possibly Alan, would pay dearly for their mistake.

"You have _no_ idea how long I've waited for this moment," she crooned, trailing her hands over their shoulders, sending goose bumps up the boys' spinal column. "You have no idea how hard it was, smarming up to you lot so you would learn to trust me, biding my time before I could act."

John blinked, rubbing his ears. He wondered if it was common practice for International Rescue agents to turn on their team members, or if he had just taken a turn into the Twilight Zone, where obscure and extraordinary events occurred everyday.

"Why are you doing this?" he demanded of her, momentarily ceasing to disarm the pressure switch. "What have we done to you for us to deserve this?"

"It's what you _didn't_ do. My sister and her two children were trapped in the earthquake four years ago, because you and your team didn't even attempt to save them."

_They're related,_ Gordon communicated to his brothers, narrowing his eyes slightly. _Her and whoever took Virg and Al._

Scott rolled his in response. _No shit, Sherlock. Thank you so much for clarifying the obvious._

From below Scott's foot, John ripped out some wires. He tapped the older boy on the calf letting him know it was safe for him to move, if he needed to. Scott offered the blond a small smile as a way of thanks.

The woman who had betrayed them moved over to a mini-disc player resting atop a table, flush against the adjoining wall. Scott wondered briefly how he missed it; in the replica of his teenaged home in Kansas, this was the only item that was out of place. The real home never had any kind of music player.

"You should probably listen to this," she murmured, placing the reader over the disc. "I'm sure you'll find it very… insightful. Especially you, Scott."

Static filled the room as the mini disc player crackled into life.

"_Hello, is it me you're looking for?"_

John growled. Damn straight they were looking for him. The recording seemed to be mocking them. And ruining his favourite Lionel Richie song.

"_Of course you are, Satan's Spawn. I wouldn't have expected otherwise. Actually, I would have, given your past. Scott Tracy, the original face of Lucifer. Don't worry; I'm not going to hurt you. Well, not physically anyway. You are far too resilient to let a few injuries stop you from inflicting hell onto other people. No, I'm going to enjoy breaking you mentally and emotionally."_

Scott clenched his teeth and ground his molars. Becoming a victim of the abductors, even if it was through words and implications, was not high on his priority list. He made a move, cocked his gun so he could shoot and silence the machine, but Gordon deliberately moved to bar his shot.

"Listen to the end, Scott," John said, subtly placing the safety back on Scott's Glock. "There could be something about Virgil. Or Alan. Or even Jade."

"_After all, it's not the first time you would have left someone to die, isn't it? You left my family down there, the same way you left your mother to die in the avalanche. You just have this habit of fucking over the people you come into contact with. Tell me, did Daddy ever forgive you for that?"_

A wide eyed look from Gordon. As far as he knew, Scott and their mother had been found by Search and Rescue Services together, encased within one air bubble in the snow. By the time the rescue crew had dug them out, Lucille Tracy had already passed on. It was nothing short of a miracle that Scott was barely clinging to life when he was found.

"_My wife, my daughter and my two sons. Does the components of my family sound similar? It should."_

More grinding of Scott's molars. Gordon could sense that Scott was gearing up, spoiling for a fight. He prepared himself, just in case he was needed to restrain the elder Tracy.

"_My wife's name was Serena. She was the most beautiful woman to have ever existed. Flowing red hair, green eyes framed by her elfin face. Full of compassion. Sounds a lot like your wife, doesn't she? Yours would make a good replacement for the one I lost, don't you think?"_

Hands curled into fists. Body tensing up, muscles contracting. Scott perceived this as a threat, and no one threatened his family. Not unless they had a death wish. There was no faster way to push him past the point of rationality than by threatening or harming any member of his family. The abductors knew that, and they were playing it to the hilt.

"_Without you in the picture – and let's face it; you'll be meeting your maker down in the pits of Hell by the time the day is out – I'll be there, ready to step in place and reclaim a family. My family. The one that should never have been taken away from me. _

"_Your youngest son, Nick, he'll be calling me Daddy, not you. I'll be watching as he takes his first steps. Not you. I'll be there for all your children's first day of school. Not you."_

A snarl from the brown haired, blue eyed Tracy. The Glock that had previously been holstered was drawn again. Finger on the trigger, ready to fire, pump holes into the voice that was grating on his already frayed temper. He wouldn't pull it, _couldn't _pull it, not yet, anyway. Not until he had determined what the psycho would do to the people who were close to him. Scott was stuck, not wanting to, but forced to listen on, sick fascination driving his curiosity. Any word against his wife, though, and that mini-disc player would have more holes than a block of Swiss cheese, as would the person, or people, who compiled it. Of that much he was sure. When it came to his family, there was no line he wasn't willing to cross.

"_Imagine my hands roaming all over your wife's body, tracking the peaks and valleys of her. Our bodies locked together as we scale the heights of ecstasy, my name playing on her lips, the way it was for me before-"_

Enough was enough. His fuse blown, he took aim and let rip. No control, no intent of stopping, Scott was letting his rage be known through artillery fire. In his livid state, his aim was terrible, with bullets ricocheting and bouncing away from his intended target.

Inadvertently – well, that was questionable – he managed to hit their ex-secret agent. Not serious, just a minor flesh wound to the upper arm, but it caused enough pain for her to drop her weapon and grab her wound. It was enough time for Gordon to sprint over to her and subdue her, kicking the dropped gun well out of her reach.

"John," Scott ordered after his shooting spree ended, deep breaths to calm him down. Somehow, losing hold of his temper had made him feel better.

"Since you like gadgets, get whatever data you can off what's left of the mini-disc and send it up to Brains for analysis. Gordon, restrain Haddon and place her in custody of the FBI. Wait until you are certain that she poses no threat to you before you treat that bullet wound; I'm not having another one of you fall victim to his. Understand?"

The two younger Tracy's snapped to attention. "FAB, Scott."

With that, John and Gordon set off to follow their instructions, while Scott began to destroy any evidence inside the attic that linked the Tracy family to International Rescue.

* * *

><p>Alan awoke sharply, the sound of metal snapping against metal rousing him to full alertness. Tranquiliser dart stuck into the vein in his neck, as though he was nothing but a wild animal that had to be tamed. he could feel the feathered end tickle across his skin.<p>

"There you are," a sinister voice drawled against his earlobe. So close to him; Alan could smell the mint of toothpaste, detect the trace of a Malaysian accent. "Snug as a bug in a non-fireproof rug."

Now, _that_ didn't bode well for him. Handcuffed to a drainpipe of some sort, Alan found his movement had been restricted. He tugged impatiently against the stainless steel links.

To no avail. He was as stuck as he had been a moment ago. Twisting as best as he could, the towhead rested his head against the drainpipe. Cool metal, almost as good as an ice-pack and two aspirins, soothing the pounding in his head.

Alan was then drenched in liquid of some sort. His International Rescue uniform clung annoyingly to his body frame, tight and taut like a second skin. Hair plastered to his eyes, meaning he couldn't see out of them.

Couldn't see the danger he was in.

Had to rely on his other senses. Not something he particularly liked.

The scent that permeated the air, wafting to his nose from his saturated skin and clothes was sweet and exotic, mingled with hazard. It reminded Alan of a mango that had gone off.

Not jet fuel, Alan's mind reasoned, as he sifted through memories of smells sluggishly.

Not alcohol either.

Accelerant. A non-alcoholic one. Fast ignition rate, high volatility, much like Alan himself.

Dammit.

Could sense heat, sense the golden flames, dancing their way closer to him. Could feel the heat scorch its way through his pants material, eat away at his skin.

Could only writhe and contort himself around the pipe, fighting against the flames that vaulted up the length of his body. Tried and failed to shield his face. There went his perfectly coiffed hair.

And the fire had been put out just as swiftly as it had started.

Skin raw, angry and peeled back to reveal muscle, singed and smoking from the flames. Even the air seemed to be attacking Alan, stabbing his pain neurones repeatedly with dull steak knives.

Another batch of accelerant, eating away at his muscle, pain skewering right down to his bones.

Another raging fire, flames wrapping and winding their way around him like he was a frame for climbing ivy to grow against.

And then extinguished, just as it had been before. The process repeated itself, over and over again, until Alan had passed out from the pain.

* * *

><p>Virgil Tracy's eyes were clouded over from blood loss, shock and just sheer exhaustion. He wheezed tiredly, his body having been put through the wringer more times than he had expected. And yet, he was still clinging onto varying degrees of consciousness, flitting between lucid and one heartbeat away from imminent death. He was still aware of what was happening in his surroundings, even if it was through a muddle of colours.<p>

His companion had confirmed what he had guessed all along. Yes, John had used his shore leave to ask her if she would marry him, and yes, Jade had given John the only answer he was willing to accept.

"Virgil?" she asked, kicking him gently as his eyelids drooped. "Virg, stay with me. Keep listening to my voice, because I don't want to have to face these monsters alone."

Virgil slurred unintelligibly around the spherical object in his mouth.

"Soo, what did you want me to talk about?"

If he had any energy, Virgil would have rolled those honey-burnt eyes of his exasperatedly. Anything but girl-talk, he pleaded internally. Cars, planes, the latest advancements in artificial intelligence. Heck, he would have even settled for talking about colour schemes and themes for a wedding.

It wasn't going to come to fruition, though. From behind, Virgil was backhanded violently across his skull, rendering him unconscious. The perpetrator of such an act then proceeded to toss Virgil over his shoulder, as though the International Rescue operative was a sack of lumpy potatoes.

Unaware of what was happening to him; Virgil was moved, once again. It was his last relocation. If everything when according to his plan – and there was no reason as to why it shouldn't, just as long as all parties involved stuck to their respective roles – it would become Beelzebub's final resting place.


	7. Chapter 7

**Disclaimer:** **The Thunderbirds do not belong to me. They are the intellectual and actual property of Gerry Anderson and his affiliates. Any original characters are a product of my imagination.**

**AN: Well, it's been a roller-coaster of a week, which has sort of thrown me off from writing, and from replying to reviews, which were greatly appreciated and encouraging when I felt like flailing in a sea of words that couldn't express the idea well enough. **

**This is most definitely part of the saga/series/linked stories I've been writing over the years, and is most definitely a sequel to "Hidden Identity" and stories set prior to that one. Needless to say, OCs established in the other tales will feature in this. Anyway, enough from me... hope you enjoy. :)**

Chapter Seven

It was with a sort of vindictive pleasure that they watched on as their adversary was led away from them, hands handcuffed behind her back.

"How'd she slip through our screening process?" Gordon muttered, crossing his arms over his chest, wincing as his hands ran over some bruising from when he had been propelled backwards from activating the trip wire.

"I don't know," Scott gritted out, noting John's absence. He sighed; now was _not _the time for his oldest little brother to go AWOL. "Listen, Gordy, can you do me a favour and let Base know about the latest developments. Hold nothing back, from Alan's abduction and Haddon's double-crossing us. Tell them about the death certificates and the mock-up house and all the copies of _To Kill a Mockingbird_, which was changed to Thunderbird, John found. I need to find our blonde one, make sure he's in the right frame of mind to continue with this."

Gordon baulked at the thought, but the look Scott shot him told the red head that Scott was not really asking. He'd just have to grit his teeth, man up and face the music. With a sigh of a person who knew he had just been delegated the worst job in the history of delegated jobs, Gordon activated the link between him and Base through his watch. How could he tell his father that two of his much-loved sons had gone missing while they were in his care?

Yes, Gordon's care. Gordon's responsibility. Gordon was the one that was present when Virgil had been snatched out of sight. Gordon had been the one with Alan. No one else, just him. He was the elder one out of the two; he should have been able to convince Alan that there had to have been another way to have gotten Virgil back, without having to sacrifice himself. Gordon had failed, twice.

Maybe this was Scott's form of a punishment. The thought left his head just as quickly as it entered. No, that couldn't be it; Scott wasn't like that, at least not when maintaining a professional, if slightly scary, decorum.

Meanwhile, Scott had made his way to where John was. The blond was curled up into himself, contorted into his favourite reading position in the corner of the prison cell sized room.

"John?" Scott dropped his voice to a whisper, lowered his body to the ground until he was eye level with the blonde. "You holding up okay?"

John jumped at the hand that was placed on his shoulder. "I'm fine," he replied gruffly, carefully folding the corner of the page of the book he was reading down, smoothing the crease. "You?"

A non-committal shrug from Scott. The tape had shaken him up more than he was willing to admit, with the threat of attack looming over his wife and kids, and the accusation that he had brought about the untimely demise of his mother.

"You know you didn't kill her, don't you, Scott? Mom's death wasn't your fault."

Another shrug of his shoulders. Scott's facial muscles tautened slightly, almost invisible to a stranger, but something John could pick up on. He hadn't lived with Scott for twenty seven and a half years for nothing. Wrong to bring that up again, he realised belatedly.

John cleared his throat. "So, I've been speed-reading through _To Kill a Mocking/Thunderbird_, and the main plot is driven by justice."

"Which tells us nothing new! All it does is confirm that we're dealing with a disgruntled, psychotic family member of one of our victims."

"It's set in a courthouse," John stated, calmly for someone who had just been snapped at. "Just food for thought."

A weary scrub of his hands down his face, digging the heels of his palms into his eyes. Scott used the time to try and connect the dots.

"John?"

"Yeah?"

"When was that earthquake?"

"Four years ago," John replied, wondering if Scott had an undiscovered head injury resulting in short-term memory loss. Questioning facts and reconfirming ideas and theories they had already deemed as probably scenarios was not Scott's normal mode of operation. He preferred to shoot things first, and question them later.

"When was the exact date?"

John screwed his face up in concentration. Out of all the brothers, he had the best long term memory, being able to recall all the rescues that had been marked as failures by their high standards.

"Umm, 24th June, it was." Realisation dawned on the blonde Tracy. "Four years today."

"Exactly. The person's taken three people hostage; one whom you view as your wife, and the other two are people we think of as kids, simply because they're younger than us."

John let out a string of swearwords, slamming his hand against the wall in anger. How the hell could he have missed the set-up? The intellectual and smart Tracy overlooked the simplest situation.

"It _is_ justice. Think about it; he wants us to suffer the same way he did. There is no better way than ensuring that the entire situation was recreated, so that we could experience, first hand, the emotions and motions he went through. Dammit, how the hell did I miss this?"

"Hey, John, we figured it out now. That's enough." Hand outstretched, Scott pulled John to his feet. "We'll get them back. All of them. You just have to believe that."

"Why?" The question held an undercurrent of resignation, suspicion.

"Because if you don't still believe that, you'd be getting the hell outta Dodge." Scott shunted his younger brother out of the room they were in.

Depositing John with Gordon, who was under strict instructions to let John treat his head laceration, Scott began to walk away.

"Where're you going?" Gordon asked, shrugging away from John as the antiseptic the blond applied stung his skin.

"To liaise with the FBI agents. Do what I do as Field Commander."

"About what?"

"I'm asking them to detain our delightful agent in their custody instead of placing her in a holding cell for the time being," Scott replied, thinking that it would be easier that way to use her as a tool for negotiation with the persons who had abducted Virgil, Jade and Alan.

A quirked auburn eyebrow as a plastic strip was stuck to his cut. "You think they'll agree?"

"Oh, when I said I was asking, I really meant telling them." Scott looked down at his watch. "We have two and a half hours left to find them alive; I am _not_ losing our prime source, even if it comes from someone who double crossed us."

* * *

><p>For some reason or another, Alan drew himself out of his stream of unconsciousness. What was left of his skin still felt as if he had been set on fire, even though the flames had been extinguished a while ago.<p>

Blinking with eyelids which had the skin ripped off, Alan observed his surroundings.

Empty, bleak and bare. Aluminium foiled ducting mapped out a labyrinth on the ceiling, while industrial sized ceiling fans lay still and silent. Harsh, bright light streamed down from halogen lamps.

Alan could only surmise that he was in an abandoned warehouse or a factory of some sort.

Not that knowing that could help him. With his watch-come-tracking beacon melted in a sticky puddle alongside his charred uniform, there was no way his brothers could find him fast. In addition to that, his hands had been bound together with metal handcuffs. The air in the warehouse was cold, making Alan shiver, painfully, in his unclad state; every stitch of clothing he wore had been burned to ashes.

Blood from wounds tracked its way slowly down his torso. Another shiver passed through his body.

Body going into shock, he thought sluggishly, not good at all.

From somewhere within his confines, a door slammed shut. The noise echoed around the room, bouncing off walls, mocking Alan as he didn't know where the noise had come from.

Vision blurred as he span his head from side to side. No shapes to be seen, just colours and lines.

A deep growl in the distance, accompanied by to deeper growls.

"Sic him, boys. And don't go easy on him; I've starved you for a week for a reason."

Two dark blurs streaked towards Alan like bullets travelling at a high velocity. Canines sharpened and bared, they sunk their teeth into Alan's recently exposed flesh, wrestling with the fibres as they pulled the sinew away from his bones.

Alan thought the creatures attacking him were bloodhounds, or at a stretch, wolves. With his hands rendered useless, and his Glock being taken away from him, Alan was helpless; there was nothing he could do to drive the carnivores away. All he could do was watch on in revulsion as the animals shredded him, tore raw meat off his skeletal structure, ate and devoured him alive.

* * *

><p>The sensation felt like he was in an elevator. He was going up, higher and higher, with the occasional heart-stopping drop as the winch system he was attached to slipped.<p>

With the blindfold finally removed, Virgil could finally make use of his vision. The view from his height, he concluded, was quite spectacular. He could just make out the apex of the Golden Gates Bridge. In any other circumstance, he would have appreciated a sketchpad and some watercolours so he could capture the view and immortalise it on canvas.

The winch that was pulling him up jammed, and Virgil dropped suddenly. His arm, now dislocated somewhere in transit from his last location to this one, flopped around at his side, swinging back and forth like a pendulum.

Pendulum.

Clocks.

Time.

Virgil was running out of it.

The fourth volcanic eruption occurred in his mouth. The final miniature explosion before the big boom. All his teeth had been turned to dust and his jaw had shattered and splintered into a million different pieces. His eyes watered from the force of the charge, but there wasn't anything he could do about it. Deep welts had formed on his tongue, and blood pooled into his mouth. He swallowed, not wanting to choke on his own bodily fluids. The fragments of teeth and shards of bone went with the swallow. He hoped his stomach acid could dissolve them before the jagged edges ripped the tissue in his intestinal tract, resulting in an internal bleed and even more agony.

Oh, shit, where the hell were his brothers? Were they so stupid that they couldn't find him before he was blown to smithereens?

Actually, on second thoughts, perhaps it was safer that they didn't find him. One Tracy boy dead was better than the whole lot being slaughtered, and Virgil had no problem with sacrificing his own life to save his brothers. It's what any other Tracy boy would do for him. Even Alan, despite his occasional selfish tendencies.

The chair he was attached to swung wildly as a clock rang out. Apart from the chimes – four strikes, each in discordant harmony with other clocks chiming in the vicinity – the city was silent. No sound of car engines roaring below, no quiet murmurs of idle chatter from pedestrians. No incessant drilling of roadworks, or seagulls crying as they flew overhead.

Furthermore, no captor – Malaysian accent or otherwise – taunting him, teasing him, playing on his fears that Scott, John, Gordon or Alan would have just given up on looking for him, the same way Alan had given up on the people trapped in the earthquake that had acted as the catalyst for the debacle he was caught up in.

Fear caved into irrational thinking. God, this was all Alan's fault! Alan made the wrong call, Virgil felt; Alan had landed them in this mess. Why the hell was he being victimised instead of Alan? Alan should have been the one swinging miles above the San Francisco skyline, grenade duct-taped into his mouth and almost all extremities been damaged or dislocated in some way. Not to mention the psychological damage the latest attack had probably left.

He mentally shook his head – physically shaking would have caused him to black out from the amount of pain he was in – and cleared his mind of such traitorous thoughts.

The chair swung violently again. The chestnut haired man's internal body clock informed him that precisely one minute had passed since the last chair swinging incident.

And with that realisation, it all clicked for Virgil. He was hanging, by a very weak rope, to the clock face of the nearest court house tower. Once a certain time had been reached, Virgil was certain that one of two scenarios would occur.

The first one was that the grenade in his mouth would explode, no doubt killing him, and possibly several others, depending on its scope.

The second scenario was that the minute hand would slice through the rope, a knife through butter, and Virgil would fall to his untimely death at precisely half past four in the afternoon.

Neither option seemed preferable to the International Rescue operative.

All he could do was wait and hope that he would be saved by then.

* * *

><p>If hearing the news that Alan had been taken too was hard, breaking the news to his family on the Island was even harder. The grandchildren had been left in their small playpen so Jeff could keep one watchful eye on them – something he had requested. It made him feel better, knowing that while he could not always keep his sons safe while they were out rescuing people, he could do his best to ensure that their offspring would not be harmed.<p>

Kyrano, too, was maintaining a silent vigil, hoping his presence could help Jeff keep a cool head.

"My brother," Kyrano stated suddenly. "He is elated about something. I can sense it."

"What else can you sense?"

"My brother is elated," Kyrano repeated. "Over what, I cannot tell, but it is a feeling that has been dormant for some time now, only to rise and plateau. I suspect it has to do with your sons, an act of unspeakable horror being perpetrated against them, but I have no method of confirming it."

Jeff clapped a hand to his mouth, swallowed down the feeling of revulsion that had snaked its way up his oesophagus. Images, uncensored and unconfirmed rushed into his head, imagination and fear letting him think the worst. Virgil being flayed alive, skin split open like a Caesarean cut gone wrong. Alan, skewered bit by bit onto a metal pike, like a kebab. Or Virgil, hanging upside down by his ankles, blood rushing to his head until a vein burst due to the high pressure and Virg died from a stroke.

"The boys," he muttered to himself, stricken with the possible scenarios. "They won't come back without their brothers."

A look at the clock on the wall. It hadn't been too long since Gordon had last contacted Base, but under the current circumstances, Jeff felt that the more frequent the contact was between him and his boys, the better. The contact helped reassure him that Scott, John and Gordon were exhausting every possibility, leaving no stone unturned in their quest to reclaim Alan and Virgil.

Deep down, he knew he wouldn't stop fretting over them until they were back, confined safely on Tracy Island.

Until then, all Jeff could do was sit and wait, hoping for the best, but mentally preparing himself for the worst.


	8. Chapter 8

**Disclaimer:** **The Thunderbirds do not belong to me. They are the intellectual and actual property of Gerry Anderson and his affiliates. Any original characters are a product of my imagination.**

**AN: A little later than I'd hoped for, but, the troublesome chapter is complete! After a few reworks, a bit of time away from this to help sort out my thoughts, it is finally done!**

**This is most definitely part of the saga/series/linked stories I've been writing over the years, and is most definitely a sequel to "Hidden Identity" and stories set prior to that one. Needless to say, OCs established in the other tales will feature, briefly, in this. Anyway, enough from me... hope you enjoy. :)**

Chapter Eight

The brunette was isolated; arms and legs bound together as cold waters licked at her bare feet. The water was rising, much to her trepidation, slowly but surely. All she could do was think about John. Think about his shambles of a proposal of marriage the night before. It wasn't a traditional proposal, but then, nothing about their relationship followed convention. Think that her parents would have been so excited when she told them the news later in the evening – after all, that was why she had flown from New York to San Francisco on such short notice. Think that despite the proposal being a shambles; it was perfect, after getting over the initial shock. John really couldn't have done better. Well, he could have, but that wasn't the point.

It was late evening when she and John had met up for their usual dinner-movie date. A quick stroll through the local park as they headed back to her flat for a cup of coffee. Another little quirky tradition that coloured and defined their relationship. A laugh of a lift ride up to the fourth floor, as they giggled over the stupid plot of the movie they had seen.

"No man can hold their breath in deep space for twenty minutes_",_ John had frowned, laughing at the ridiculous plot point that allowed the protagonist to save the day.

The minute she had opened the door, he had rushed into her bathroom. No surprises there; the man had drunk a gallon of soda at the cinema. So Jade did what she usually did at this point in their date; she turned her instant coffee machine on and placed some biscuits on a plate. It was at this point that something struck as unusual. John was muttering to himself, almost as if he was rehearsing lines.

"… you mean the world to me, and I love you so, so much."

"John?" the brunette had asked, ducking her head through a gap in the door. "Who are you talking to?"

"No one!" John had jumped around in surprise.

She raised her eyebrows and John changed his tune. "I mean, I was talking to myself."

"You were telling yourself that you mean the world to you and that you love you so, so much?"

Well, said like that, John rubbed the back of his neck agitatedly and flushed a bright red. He probably realised how narcissistic it had sounded.

"Can we please move to the living room?" he had asked, squirming on the spot.

Jade had barred his way, both hands grasping the doorframe. "No. Will you please tell what's going on?"

John had cast a cursory glance at his surroundings. On his left, the shower leaked, a constant stream of drip-drip-drip. The toilet flushed automatically from behind him – he knew she had been meaning to get that repaired. It wasn't ideal, but Jade didn't seem to be acquiescing to his wishes. It was all he had, so it would have to do.

Pulling the ring box he had pocketed, he knelt down on one knee on the slightly soggy bath mat, grimacing slightly as the bathmat saturated his jeans.

"Jade," he had begun hesitantly, sweeping that blond lock of his out of his eyes. "I know we haven't had the most… conventional relationship, but despite all of that, I know you mean the world to me, and I love you so, so much."

A beat of silence. She could almost see John's heart palpitating wildly against his ribcage, see his eyes dilate with fear should she say no.

"You're asking me to marry you… in a bathroom?" she asked, clearly unimpressed even though it had taken her by surprise.

"I tried to get you out of here," John had pointed out. "But you refused to move. So yes, I am asking you to marry me in a bathroom."

Another beat of silence.

"Well, will you say something?"

"What do you want me to say, John?"

"A yes would suffice."

Hesitation.

Consideration.

"Okay. But after that shambolic proposal, I want you to know that I'm saying yes for the tax benefits that come with marriage. Not because I may just happen to love you."

John had grinned a pearly white smile, as bright as a 1000 watt bulb as he slipped the engagement ring on her finger. "Like I'd expect you to say yes otherwise."

The memory dissolved, and she was left with nothing, except her bleak present. In the distance, she could hear the sound of faint whistling. Eerily, it carried back to her through the air.

"Help!" she yelled, hoping to catch that person's attention, alert them to the fact that she was being held as a hostage, against her will. "I'm down here! Please!"

In the distance, she could see the flicker of a light, a bright spark as dark, thunderous clouds rolled overhead. The light dissipated as fast as it had appeared. Clearly, whoever it was had just lit a cigarette, or a match for some reason.

"I'm down here," she yelled again, several decibels louder, just in case the passer-by hadn't heard her.

"No one's coming for you, sweetheart," the person drawled back, chuckling throatily.

_That's not true,_ her brain argued fiercely. _John'll find you. You know he will. He'll give you one of those heart-stopping, head-spinning kisses of his and then you'll know the ordeal is over. You and he can get back to life as it was before. _

"Well, that's not true," the voice, belonging to one of the men that held her hostage, continued to croon. "I'm here for ya, sugar. But I'm only here to watch you die. Your death is par for the course in the destruction of Lucifer. But, take your time. The slower, the more agonising, the better. King tide today; you'll probably drown."

Harsh breathing from the brunette as realisation dawned on her. This was it. This was her Waterloo. The men who had abducted her clearly had no intention of releasing her. She was there to die, and she knew that the abductors knew that there was no better way to hurt John than hurting her or his family. She knew that her death would be the emotional destruction of John, and that would give way to John losing the will to live.

"I have to make a phone call to your fiancé. Don't go anywhere." The man shot her a look. "Oops, silly me, you _can't_ go anywhere."

Things looked bleak, to say the least.

And so she was stuck, chained to a wooden strut, with the water rising and no hope of a rescue, even though she was the bait to initiate an impromptu rescue.

* * *

><p>With three people he and his brothers held close to their heart taken against their will, the Field Commander was uneasy about sending members of his team out on their own. Instead, they had returned back to the site of the fire they had initially been called out to. Gordon had re-entered Two's Pod, replenishing the supplies they had exhausted. As per Scott's delegation, he also checked in briefly with his father, delivering the news that there had been no change in the situation.<p>

John, by contrast, leant against the exterior shell of the curved Pod, grasping the ring he held in his possession in his hand. Couldn't quite believe the way events had unfolded. He pinched the side of his thumb, hoping he couldn't feel any pain. If there was no pain, that would make this a dream, or a nightmare, and he would wake up, safe and sound.

No such luck; he hissed as his skin snapped back to retain its shape.

All this shit really was happening, then, he mused.

Scott marched up and down outside the entrance to the pod, his pace establishing that the cogs in his mind were working at overdrive. He used the time to review the facts, suss out connections between the disappearances of all three, and subsequently extrapolate and make an educated guess to what their next move should be.

The realisation hit him like a lightning bolt. He couldn't believe he hadn't come to the realisation earlier, especially when it was his brothers' lives at stake.

"Gordon, get out here! John, on the double!"

Scott had never seen two people move so fast.

"What is it?" Gordon asked, skidding to a stop.

"Have you heard something?" John pressed for information.

As if on a cue, the phone that was the source of contact between them and the kidnappers rang. Scott, as the person of contact, waited for a few rings until the FBI gave them the go-ahead to answer the call.

"Where the hell are they?"

Silence. It did nothing to calm Scott down. Quite the opposite in fact; his rage went from simmering under his skin to bursting out in white-hot ire.

"ANSWER ME!" he roared, vocal chords remaining surprisingly steady despite the fact that he was yelling.

"_I want to talk to John._"

Some more silence on Scott's part. The slight control-freak that he was, he was unwilling to give up his role in this in favour to his little brother. At the end of the day, he was Field Commander, it was his responsibility to get his brothers back home.

"_I ain't sayin' nothin' until I talk to John. May I remind you that you are wasting Virgil's precious time? Of course, being the faces of the Devil, I'd imagine time stretches into an eternity to you lot. The pits of Hell and all that, you know what I mean."_

Backed into a corner with no way to escape, Scott had to acquiesce to the abductor's request. John and he quickly swapped roles, with Scott snapping on the earphones while John placed the mobile to his ear.

"What do you want from me?" he demanded, voice a few million degrees below freezing.

"_You Tracys sure know how to pick the pretty girls, don't you?"_

John could feel his heart momentarily stop beating, before kicking in again. His heart was having a real bad time today.

"_I mean, she's not my type, but she sure is pretty. Look at her eyes, so young, so full of life."_

"Don't you dare hurt her," John growled, primal protective instinct rising to the surface. "I will hunt you down and I will kill you if you hurt her!"

A high, cold, cruel laugh from the other end of the line. _"Oh, we both know you won't follow through on that. You don't sound half as threatening as you would if you intended to."_

From behind the FBI agent, Gordon indicated that John had to keep on talking so that they could get a lock on the location of the abductor. Gordon could only assume that in their haste, the kidnappers had forgotten to arm their signal jammer. Not that the International Rescue team were complaining about it; in fact, it made the retrieval of one of the hostages easier for them.

"Let me guess; actions speak louder than words?"

"_You're a smart cookie."_

With the location finally tracked, Gordon made a slicing motion against his neck. Idle chit-chat was not conducive to garnering a positive outcome from this nightmare.

_Where are they?_ John mouthed to Gordon. Gordon sent the data to John's watch. Holding the phone in place with his shoulder, John fiddled with the dials and buttons until he could view the relevant information.

Pier 39. It was a well-known attraction; one John had wanted to see for a long time. But not like this. It was also a fair distance away his current location, but that wasn't going to stop him. He knew where they were, he would be able to rescue his fiancée from the clutches of this lunatic and hopefully, at the same time, capture and place the abductor – or at least one of them – behind bars.

"_No smart comeback, Satan? No hot-headed response that your brother's so fond of? That's a first."_

"Oh, I have a response," John laughed without humour. "Thank you."

For the first time in a long time, John had managed to have the last word. This was affirmed when he decisively hung up on the caller and handed the phone back to Scott.

"Pier 39," he said without prompting. "I don't care how much you try and stop me, I'm going."

"You and I both know you're too stubborn to desist, even if I order you to," Scott said, having no intention of stopping John. This way, there was a chance to get at least one out of the three back alive. "I'd feel better if you took a few FBI agents with you, though, John."

John nodded in agreement, stocking up on supplies he thought would be most useful.

"And for God's sake, be careful, John."

With his small team gathered, John flipped Scott a brief salute before sprinting off on a rescue of his own.

From beside Scott, Gordon tugged on the Field Commander's sleeve. "What else did you figure out?"

"Huh?"

"Why were you calling us to regroup?" Gordon prompted.

"Oh, right. I'm with you. I know where Virgil is," Scott asserted.

"You do? How sure?"

"About 98% sure, with 2% left for a margin of error."

"Those are pretty good odds," Gordon conceded. "But there can't be a margin of error. Not with Virg's life on the line."

Voice low and heavy, Scott replied, "I know. But it's all we've got."

A moment of sober silence. The gravity of Scott's educated guess weighed down heavily on them.

"So, where's Virgil?"

"I think he may be somewhere in the Superior Courthouse."

Gordon did a double take. How Scott had managed to make a leap to come to that conclusion was beyond him. How Scott could be almost certain that his conclusion was the right one baffled him, and Gordon needed to understand Scott's reasoning before he was willing to back Scott on this.

"Whoever took Virg, they focus on justice and time. Four years ago, the city of San Francisco dedicated the clock tower they were constructing on top of the courthouse at the time to all the victims of the earthquake. It fits, and I just have a gut feeling he's there. Trust me on this."

Said with such conviction, Gordon saw no other way but to trust Scott had got it right. It was times like this that reminded Gordon how lucky he was to have a big brother that was willing to help sort out the mess he had, in a convoluted way, created. After all, if he had just managed to stop Alan and Virgil from disappearing from his sight, they would have been back on the island by now.

_But what about Alan,_ his mind dogged him. _You can't just leave him in favour of Virg. _

Scott seemed to read his mind. Pulling out his gun from his holster, he added, "Give me five minutes alone with Haddon and I'll find out where Alan is."

* * *

><p>The minute hand moved, sending Virgil into a small free fall. Until the rope that tied his winch system to the minute hand of the clock tautened and he stopped falling with a jerk that shook through his body. He wheezed painfully as the shock ran through his broken ribs.<p>

At least the Hood and his accomplice had left him alone, miles above the city of San Francisco. They wouldn't be here to witness his demise, make a spectacle of the various parts of his body once he'd exploded. He had to be grateful for that – dressed in his International Rescue uniform; whoever found him would undoubtedly treat his arms and legs with respect, offering him some dignity beyond the end. The fact that he believed that his body would have been treated with such care should have been some comfort to his family, Virgil thought.

Of course, what would have been more comforting was if his supposedly smart brothers had been able to locate him before the above scenario became a reality.

For the first time, a small tear tracked down from his eye. He wasn't ready to go, he wasn't ready to die. Not now, not like this. There was still so much unfinished business for him.

He hadn't completed composing his latest masterpiece. A tribute for his mum on what would have been her fiftieth birthday.

Hadn't played Hot Wheels with his nephew, as he promised.

Forgotten to help his niece perfect her stick-figure picture of her Daddy.

Hadn't discovered the joy of holding his own son or daughter in arms, safe and secure from all the horrors in the world.

Had growled at his dad when Jeff had snaffled a mini-muffin from his mid-afternoon snack, instead of letting him have it gracefully.

Hadn't gotten payback on Gordon and Alan for a prank they pulled on him. The green hair dye took forever to wash out.

Hadn't shared that beer with Scott, sitting on the balcony with their legs slotted through the cast iron railings, talking about the good ol' days.

Hadn't made amends with his wife after the most ridiculous argument. Why did it matter if he left the cap off the toothpaste tube? It seemed trivial in the grand scheme of things.

Most importantly, despite the fact that they were fighting, he hadn't told Gus that he loved her.

It would be his downfall. He would die, and his wife wouldn't know just how much he loved her.

The winch system lurched again.

One way or another, Virgil concluded, it would all be over soon.

* * *

><p>With the industrial sized fans being closed, the air inside what Alan thought was a warehouse or factory became stifling.<p>

The dogs, wolves, whatever had been using him as their latest chew toy had seemingly become bored with devouring him – every inch of skin was exposed, and his flesh had been munched on, like he was little more than a tea-time snack - and in turn, had settled off to sleep in a corner far away from him.

Chunks of his flesh littered the floor, blood coagulated in various sized puddles. He moaned piteously at that sight. There was nothing like seeing your own raw flesh and singed skin to make you want to throw up, Alan thought.

He shifted again. This time, the pain increased exponentially. The raw, open ends of his nerves made him extra sensitive – everything seemed infinitely more painful than it should have been.

Out in the distance, he could see a dark shadow, scurrying its way towards him. Alan had no idea what it was, but given his track record, it wouldn't bode well for him.

Probably some other nasty critter, Alan figured, waiting to feed on him.

He wasn't wrong.

Ants.

A swarm of them, moving closer and closer, a red cloud sweeping across the floor.

And then it hit Alan.

Not just any ants.

Fire ants.

The first bite set fire to the ragged edges of his skin. The first sting from the ants hit him like a sledgehammer.

Pain.

So much, raw, undiluted pain.

Pain in its purest form.

He could feel the feather-light tracks as the ants roamed on him, enter every opening they could find.

He could feel them drown in saliva in his mouth, could feel them crawl through the open welts and cuts that had formed after he had been set on fire and fed to canines.

He could feel each and every bite they gave him, like a poison ivy rash creeping over his skin.

He dragged on the handcuffs, vainly hoping that the heat from the numerous times he had been alight had somehow weakened the metal. No such luck. Still as stiff and strong as they had ever been, stretching his arms far above his head.

There was nothing he could do, no weapon he could use to drive the ants away. In his naked state – his uniform had long been burnt to ashes – there was nothing he could use to pick at the lock on the handcuffs.

He was as helpless as a baby.

Closing his eyes, he lost all sense of his surroundings as the onslaught continued.


	9. Chapter 9

**Disclaimer: The Thunderbirds do not belong to me. They are the intellectual and actual property of Gerry Anderson and his affiliates. Any original characters are a product of my imagination.**

**AN: Up a little earlier than expected... hooray for free time between calculus and the lets-learn-how-to-make-friends-workshop I'm forced to go to. Nearing the end, which is a good thing, as The Muse has the vague outline for a sequel planned.**

**This is most definitely part of the saga/series/linked stories I've been writing over the years, and is most definitely a sequel to "Hidden Identity" and stories set prior to that one. Needless to say, OCs established in the other tales will feature in this. Anyway, enough from me... hope you enjoy. :)**

Chapter Nine

Like his son, Jeff had found it impossible to remain seated behind his desk. Instead, he had paced relentlessly in front of the portraits, silently hoping that at least one of them would start flashing.

No such luck.

He supposed, in a twisted way, that no news was good news. On the other hand, no news could mean that the situation had taken a less desirable turn, with all his sons missing, or worse.

"Gampy?" a small voice asked the playpen in the corner of the room.

Jeff's head swivelled, attention diverted to the small towhead with a Hot Wheel car in his hands. Three strides was all it took for him to reach his three year old grandson and swoop him into a hug. Jeff needed it as much as Leroy did – as the son of Alan, Leroy was the closest thing Jeff had to his youngest son.

"What is it?"

"I want Daddy," he stated, lip wobbling slightly.

"I know you do, Leroy," Jeff whispered, cuddling his eldest grandson closer to him. "I promise, your uncles will do everything in their power to make sure that your Daddy comes home to play with your cars."

The three year old had no idea what his grandfather meant, but he burrowed his head into the crook between Jeff's neck and shoulder.

After a few moments, Jeff placed Leroy back in the playpen with his other grandkids. "Grampa's got a bit of work to do now, kids. He's got to make sure that your Daddies come back."

With practised ease – something he hadn't felt since this rescue began – Jeff slid back behind his desk.

Still willing any portrait to start flashing, Jeff stared at them, grey eyes unwavering. It seemed that his luck had taken a turn.

"Go ahead, Gordon."

"We've found one of the three hostages. John's gone to retrieve them," Gordon informed Jeff succinctly, face unusually pinched. Jeff hazarded a guess that it was because of the stress that he rescue had caused.

"Good job, Gordon."

"Scott's sussed out where Virgil is," Gordon added. "Superior Court house. If you could get Brains to do a surveillance scan from Five, that would help us out a lot."

"Consider it done. I'll have Brains send over anything he's flagged down to your watches."

A very pregnant pause between father and son. Gordon raked a hand tiredly through his hair, as he did when he was anxious, worried or stressed.

"And Alan?" Jeff prompted, sending a sideways glance towards Leroy. Alan had grown up with few memories of his mother, and Jeff was damned if he would let his grandson grow up without a father.

"Scott's interrogating Haddon as we speak. If anyone can terrify her into revealing Alan's location, it's him."

Another pregnant pause. Jeff ground his molars, fuming at the fact that the one person they had trusted was the one person who had the power to bring International Rescue crashing down. Jeff was well aware that his primary business had many adversaries, namely the Hood, but he had never dreamed that their downfall would come from one of their own agents.

"Don't worry, Dad, she won't be able to mislead Scott again. He's got that innate ability to detect bullshit when he hears it."

"I know. He's caught me a few times with it," Jeff admitted sheepishly.

"Dad?" A tentative question. "How far d'you think Scott is willing to go in his interrogation?"

Jeff closed his eye and drew in a deep breath. Knowing his son almost as well as he knew himself; Jeff knew just how far Scott was willing to go. He also knew what it would cost Scott personally.

"Thou shalt not kill, Gordon. He'll go as far as that, and then stop. He'll overstep many boundaries, but not that one."

Maybe it was his imagination, but he could have sworn he saw Gordon sag slightly in relief.

"Listen, Dad, I'd better go now. This will probably be the last communication until we get them all back with us. We'll contact you when we're able to."

"FAB, Gordon."

The communication link dissolved into static, leaving a very quiet Command and Control hub.

* * *

><p>To many other people, the mere presence of Scott Tracy would have been chafing. To have him prowling around in his Air-Force-Commander mode would have scared them shitless.<p>

But not to the woman who had been detained by the FBI.

Instead, she regarded him with cool, dark eyes, remaining poised and calm, even though she had been handcuffed and shackled to a chair.

"Oh, how the mighty have fallen," she crooned, glancing surreptitiously around. Just her and Scott; no one else in sight.

It had taken quite a bit of negotiating and convincing on Scott's part, but he had managed to persuade the FBI agents to let him talk to Rya Haddon alone. No eavesdroppers, no other parties witness the interrogation that was about to happen. After all, the FBI and International Rescue were on the same side in this, he had reasoned, it wouldn't do if an IR operative eliminated someone in the FBI's jurisdiction. And, as Scott had also pointed out, Haddon was no use to them dead, so there was no way he would shoot to kill. Having not rescinded that particular order, it was still an option for him to utilise, but he knew that it would not garner any benefits if he did. He'd have to keep a tight leash on his trigger-happy impulses.

"You'd come crawling back to me. I knew it. You've come to beg me for locations and plans only I know, and yet you're still too stupid to figure it out. You're still too dumb to realise I'm not playing by your rules; I don't have to reveal anything to you."

A sharp, piercing, steel-blue look in her direction. A primal growl. "_Everyone_ plays by my rules. No exceptions."

Another pace up and down before looming over her. "I'm giving you one chance. Where is Alan?"

"It pains you that you aren't in control, doesn't it? It irks you that you can't determine the way this will end. You know that you can't save Alan and Virgil. It has to be one or the other. You're the one who has their blood on your hands."

Quick as a flash, the Field Commander had drawn his Glock and jabbed it into her sternum, just right off her heart. The vein near his left eye twitched and his finger convulsed against the trigger.

"Don't tempt me," he warned, softly, dangerously. Of course, he couldn't shoot her, even if he really wanted to; he had left the safety on as a security blanket, just in case.

"You won't shoot me," Haddon laughed, quirking an eyebrow. "You're International Rescue; you don't go around… disposing people. Even cold hearted bitches like me."

That seemed to stir something inside of Scott. As much as he loathed admitting it, she was right. The whole purpose of International Rescue was to help save lives, not take them away. Still, there was a way around that little snag.

He backed off, holstering his weapon. "True. That's a very true point. But, then, I don't always have to act as part of International Rescue."

The blue sash and the IR pin were removed from his uniform and placed carefully on the floor. Nope, he wasn't acting on behalf of International Rescue now. Everything from here on in would be done under his discretion, and his alone.

"See? Not representing IR now, am I? And this wouldn't be… disposing of you." The gun was jammed back into her torso.

"I'm about six inches too low to be accused of murder."

The muzzle of the gun dug into her stomach. She twitched as the cold from the metal seeped through her top and cloaked her skin.

"And when it comes to my family," Scott continued as he leant down, towered over her. "There is _no_ line I'm not willing to cross. It's black and white; there are no shades of grey."

Sobering silence. There seemed to be a lot of that recently.

Hard, cold eyes regarded blue eyes that were equally as hard, equally as glacier like.

"You won't kill me, International Rescue or not. You're too yellow to be a murderer."

"Don't you _dare_ to presume what I will or won't do! You have _no_ idea what I will do, and you wouldn't be the first bitch I've killed, eye to eye. Believe me," he bluffed, "I am far more at ease with this than you'd like to think!"

If that didn't work, Scott didn't know what would. He continued to fix her with the glacier like stare, hoping to erode her will, break down the wall she had built up.

It seemed to have worked. Her eyes darted quickly off to the left before staring back at the Field Commander.

"You're too late," she taunted in a sing-song voice. "So close, yet so far. The beginning is the end, and the end is the beginning. By the time you find him, Alan will be gone."

It was not an answer, but it was an answer in itself. Cryptic crossword clues were something he enjoyed puzzling over – barring any rescue, he would spend all of Sunday morning pouring over the cryptic crosswords in newspapers. But he didn't have time to puzzle over this by his lonesome. Gordon was waiting, somewhat impatiently, and Scott knew that he had to impart what he had discovered and subsequently guessed, with the red head.

As soon as Scott entered his visual field, securing his sash and clipping his badge back on, Gordon scurried over to him. Palms sweaty from the wait, Gordon fired off his questions to Scott with the urgency they both felt.

"Where's Alan? What did she say? Who and what do I need to take with me?"

"The beginning is the end, and the end is the beginning. Make of that what you will," Scott replied, rubbing at his temples. "I have an idea, resulting in two possible locations, but I'm not too sure of it."

"Anything's better than nothing," Gordon encouraged. Being a man who preferred to call things as he saw it, he couldn't make, for certain, heads or tails of the cryptic clue. He, too, had a vague idea as to where Alan was, but he wanted to hear Scott's theories to either prove or disprove his assumptions.

"Alan's either within the vicinity of where this rescue originated from, or at the epicentre of the quake four years ago. The epicentre's about three miles south of here."

That made sense, Gordon realised. It then struck him that he could help determine which of Scott's theories was right, with the help of some sensors on board Thunderbird Two. Hurrying into the cockpit of the watermelon on steroids, Gordon began to calibrate the thermo heat sensors.

"If Alan's in the vicinity, he'll register on the heat scanners, regardless of how cold his core body temperature is," Gordon explained at Scott's questioning look. "If the scans come back clear, it's because Alan isn't held within this vicinity. Not because he's dead; I'd know if he was dead."

Moments passed, moments they couldn't afford to lose. Each brother waited with bated breath, hoping that they could get an exact fix on Alan's location with the sensor. The machine beeped, letting them know that it had completed the scan.

"Nothing," Gordon said, looking at the results. "He's not here."

Scott nodded, glanced down at his watch, ever mindful of the time Virgil had left. They had forty minutes, maximum.

"Alright, here's the plan. Brains will send down the exact coordinates of the epicentre to you en route. It changed from a commercial zone to an industrial one, so it'll be a warehouse of some sort. You get Alan, and I'll get Virg. Take some EMTs and FBI agents with you, just in case you happen to find the captors."

Gordon nodded, gripped his supply kit in his hands and headed out. Before he could go, Scott had grabbed onto his upper arm.

"Gordy, I just wanted you to know that however this turns out, it wasn't your fault. I know you, and I know you're beating yourself up over this. Stop. It _wasn't _your fault. And it goes without saying, but proceed with caution."

"You too, Scott."

And then Gordon and Scott left, each heading in a different direction.

The parting of the ways, venturing off into the unknown.

* * *

><p><em>I am in the Royal Albert Hall. I am sitting in a stall with a clear view of the piano on stage. I am watching Richard Ansana, piano maestro, work his magic as his fingers dance over the ivory and ebony keys. After that, I'll visit the Tate Modern and see some of the most wonderful contemporary art displayed. Then, I will pop over to Lady Penelope's place, out of courtesy, before heading back home. I do enjoy these trips to England. <em>

Opening his eyes, Virgil Tracy was slightly disappointed to discover that his dream had not come true. He was still stuck in that dratted winch system, still had almost every bone in his body broken or dislocated, still had dried blood caked on his skin, mixed through his chestnut curls, still swinging from the end of a rope over the San Francisco skyline. He was a flag at half-mast.

How long he had been left swaying in the breeze was something he was unaware of. Time no longer held any meaning to him. All Virgil could see was his demise. At his left, he could feel Death, hand outstretched, just waiting for him to fall. On his right, the Grim Reaper stood, customary scythe hooked over his dark, shadowed cloak. In his mouth, the grenade vibrated slightly, warming up before the final explosion occurred.

He lurched again. At this rate, the footpath below and he would become very intimately acquainted, as he fell from a height of at least fifty feet, with no means of breaking his fall, or softening the blow.

_Virgil splattered pavement pancakes for breakfast, anyone?_

If he had the energy, or the inclination, he would have chuckled. There was nothing like a bit of dark humour to kick off his final moments alive. Shame no one was there to share it with him.

Wait… he could have been mistaken. Every other part of his body was damaged, but his eyes and his ears were working perfectly. He could hear muffled voices; hear boots stamping on metal steps. He could see faint shadows on the ground, growing larger and larger as they approached him.

"Virgil!"

There was no mistaking it; that was the dulcet voice of worried-Scott. Virgil would have cried out loud, if it weren't for the grenade in his mouth.

The grenade.

Holy shit, he was letting his brother find him as a ticking time bomb!

No way of yelling to Scott to leave him.

No way of informing Scott of the danger he was putting himself in by finding Virgil.

Scott inched ever closer and Virgil panicked.

He couldn't let his big brother die because of him.

"I'm here, Virg. It's gonna be okay. We'll get you up. Don't worry, everything's gonna be fine now."

His protests died inside his mouth and he could feel himself rise smoothly, steadily. And then he could feel hands, grappling at his limbs, holding him in one piece as he was lifted up to safety. The suffering, thanks to the vast array of injuries he had been subject to, as he was manhandled by so many people – Scott, but no John, Gordon or Alan, and other FBI agents and EMTs – was worth it. He was safe.

Well, as safe as one could be with a grenade in their mouth.

But that wouldn't last for long. As he was secured onto a spinal board – not even he knew the extent of his injuries, so he was glad to take any precautions he could get – and several blankets and tourniquets were applied to profusely bleeding wounds, Scott leant over him and ripped the duct tape from his mouth.

"Oh, Virg, what did they do to you?"

Scott sounded pained, Virgil realised, as he eased the grenade gently out from Virgil's lax gums. Blood and shards of teeth spurted out, splattering down his cheeks. "Virg, I need you to focus for me. Blink once for yes, and twice for no. Do you know where the pin for this grenade is?"

Virgil blinked. And he blinked again.

Scott cursed up a storm under his breath.

What the hell was he meant to do?

Couldn't hold onto a live grenade, he wasn't stupid enough to hang onto it, but didn't know how to defuse it. Couldn't chuck it back into the bowels of the courthouse, not with so many people standing on its roof. Couldn't toss it onto the ground, either. Or maybe he could; if the area had been evacuated. No way of telling for certain, though, not from an elevated altitude of fifty feet.

Couldn't leave Virgil; let him travel to the nearest hospital all by himself. Not in that state. But it seemed that he would have to. Strangers lives over familial loyalty.

A tap at his shoulder. Any help given at this point in time was something he would willingly take. Not caring to whom he was handing the weapon to, he shoved the live time bomb into the hands of an FBI agent. Let it be someone else's problem; he had enough of his own to deal with.

"The evacuation of the area's complete. There's a park that's two blocks down, we have a team ready to deal with it. Infrastructure damage could be heavy, but at least no civilians will be hurt."

"Good," Scott growled, glancing at his watch. "You guys have less than ten minutes before it pops."

Shirking his duties as Field Commander in favour of his responsibilities as Virgil's older brother, Scott pushed past the agent to catch up to Virgil, who had been taken away with the EMTs. Quickly, he had been informed that given the seriousness and the extent of the injuries, it had been deemed that the safest course of action would have been to airlift Virgil to the nearest hospital. A steely look from Scott had informed the EMTs that he _would_ be travelling with Virgil, and that it was not up for negotiation.

Honey brown eyes searched cobalt blue ones.

"Gaagh," Virgil slurred out, struggling to form words.

"I'll let him know," Scott assured, knowing that Virgil was asking if their father knew. "Don't worry about it. I'll take care of everything."

For the first time since the beginning of the disastrous rescue, Virgil and Scott breathed a sigh of relief.

Everything, for now, for the pair of them, was going to be alright.


	10. Chapter 10

**Disclaimer:** **The Thunderbirds do not belong to me. They are the intellectual and actual property of Gerry Anderson and his affiliates. Any original characters are a product of my imagination.**

**AN: Hooray! ff. net is back up and running. Thanks again to everyone who's been reading, and an extra thanks to those that have taken a few moments to leave a review. **

**This is most definitely part of the saga/series/linked stories I've been writing over the years, and is most definitely a sequel to "Hidden Identity" and stories set prior to that one. Needless to say, OCs established in the other tales will feature, briefly, in this. Anyway, enough from me... hope you enjoy. :)**

Chapter Ten

Alan was far too tired, both physically and mentally, to even contemplate groaning. Instead, he opted to suffer in silence. The carnivores prowled around him, the stench of blood permeated the air, and the ants continued to roam over his body, crawling in and out of every orifice they could find.

At that point in time, Alan couldn't even bring himself to care. All he wanted was for it to be over. Being burnt alive and eaten alive wasn't his idea of a good time. He didn't care how it ended, whether it was with Gordon, or John, or maybe even Scott, coming to save him, or whether his body succumbed and gave out, he just wanted it to be over.

From the distance, the door opened. Alan squinted, but he could only make out a dark silhouette, standing… no, making his way heroically towards him.

It had to be Gordon.

The height, the build of the body, there was no other explanation.

Drawing on strength he didn't know he possessed, Alan cried, weakly, "Gordy, wolves!"

It appeared that Gordon hadn't heard him; the elder of the two boys continued to career wildly towards the younger boy.

Fresh prey approaching them. The hounds lost all interest in Alan and pounced on Gordon, sinking their sharp teeth into his thighs. Luckily for Gordon, the manner in which they pounced on him meant that they had missed nicking his femoral artery. At least he wasn't going to bleed to death. That was something.

Gordon aimed a kick at the animals, distracting them so he could reach into one of the canisters attached to his sash and pull out his Zippo lighter.

The small flame drove the hounds off Gordon, leaving the path clear to Alan. From behind him, several FBI agents went to subdue the animals. Zippo still lit; Alan flinched at the sight of the flame as Gordon approached him.

"Al?"

Alan, fixated and terrified as the flame from the lighter that inched closer, made to move as far away from the fire as he could. Even though it was his brother wielding the flame, and Alan knew that Gordon wouldn't deliberately hurt him, he could still sense the potential danger that came from the orange glow. He could still feel accelerant being poured over his torso, could still feel the flames from the inferno licking and dancing over his frame.

By now Gordon had made his way to Alan, jumping back to avoid the fire ants that were crawling all over the towhead.

"Get 'em off of me," Alan muttered, spitting out some saliva drowned insects from his mouth. "Hurts, Gordy."

Gordon nodded in understanding. Reaching into the supply kit he had brought with him, Gordon pulled out a small, red mini fire extinguisher. Activating it, he sprayed Alan, coating every part of him with carbon dioxide, killing the fire ants. A cascade of red fell from Alan, a mixture of dead ant bodies and blood.

"Gordy…"

"Hey, it's okay, I've got you. You're safe," Gordon reassured, gingerly wrapping Alan up in a thermo blanket to keep him warm.

"Gordy, the monsters, they attacked me," Alan finally managed. Nodding his head downwards, he continued, "Everything that should be there, is still there, right?"

Not a question Gordon had been expecting, and not something he had taken a detailed account of. Unwrapping the blanket from Alan, Gordon critically assessed each injury that had been inflicted on his little brother.

Third degree burns on some parts of his body, other parts charred to the bone. Muscle ripped out from wounds waterfalling blood. But, all of Alan's appendages and extremities seemed to be attached to him through sinew and little strands of skin.

"It's all there. Pretty chewed up, but there all the same." Gordon looked straight into Alan's eyes. "Given the external mutilation, there may be some internal damage as well."

"Thought as much," Alan surmised, sighing in relief as the handcuffs chaining him to pipes were removed from his wrists and ankles.

Now that the area was deemed safer, swarms of people had approached Alan. EMTs had managed to get Alan from a standing position, strapped down onto a stretcher. From there, babble broke out, each word going over Alan's head. Having medical training for use in a rescue situation, it wasn't that Alan didn't understand what was happening; it was more that Alan didn't want to know. Ignorance really could be bliss.

From beside him, Gordon grasped onto his hand, applying a soothing cream to the ant bites that marked his arms like chicken-pox scars.

For the first time that day, Alan relaxed slightly, feeling secure in the knowledge that with his big brother by his side, nothing terrible would happen to him.

* * *

><p>Swilling the dregs of that pathetically weak cup of joe he had been offered, Scott fidgeted on the orange, plastic chair in the hospital's waiting room. Upon their arrival, Virgil had been rushed straight into surgery, just to plug some internal bleeding he had sprung. Scott, not being allowed to accompany his brother into the operating theatre, had instead elected to wait in the waiting room.<p>

His father had been informed of the situation, and was currently en route with Augustina and Tin-Tin travelling with him. Their estimated time of arrival was in half an hour. It was half an hour too long; Scott needed to see his extended family, make sure that they were alright in the aftermath of the rescue.

Gordon had checked in, having found Alan in a repairable state. They, too, were headed to the hospital. Speaking of Gordon, he had just arrived and collapsed into the seat next to Scott. Wordlessly, Scott handed Gordon the cup of coffee.

"Gross," Gordon spat out, pulling a disgusted face at the drink. "Cold _and_ bitter. Is there no justice in the world?"

"You forgot weak," Scott added, pushing himself out of his chair so he could wear a hole in the carpet's floor by relentlessly pacing up and down.

"That too," Gordon agreed. "Heard from John yet?"

Scott shook his head. "I'm worried, but I don't want to contact him yet. If he's in need of our help, he'll call us. Otherwise, I don't want to distract him from the task at hand. How's Alan?"

"Being treated for shock, blood loss, severe burns and fire ant bites and stings. Virg?"

"Blood loss, internal bleeding, practically every bone in his body dislocated or broken, jaw reconstruction and shock. That's just physical damage; there'll be psychological damage too, no doubt about it."

"Shit. That's bad."

Another pace up and down from Scott. Gordon scrunched up the empty paper cup and lobbed it into the wastepaper basket. Minutes passed with no interruption. Gordon squirmed in his seat. Scott stopped pacing and leant heavily against a wall, head buried in his hands, the accusation that he had killed his mother still ringing in his ears. It suffocated him, making it difficult for him to breathe in the stifling room. Not something that made him feel particularly good.

"Scott?"

Scott ignored his little brother and headed straight for the door, intent of escaping outside for some air. As soon as he had flung the door open, he was accosted by one of the many FBI agents that they had been working with.

"Well? You've got some news for us?"

"We have some good news, and some bad news," the FBI agent responded.

"Give us the good news," Gordon demanded, ever the optimist.

"We have managed to detain all three conspirators against you. We have remanded Rya Haddon and her brother-in-law in our custody, while the third captor, yet to be positively identified, is being treated here for some injuries sustained while being placed under arrest. We have that person under guard. This, of course, means that they will go to trial in a court of law for kidnapping and torture. Your organisation will be required to testify to ensure that the jury come back with a guilty verdict."

Gordon shared an uneasy look with Scott. As International Rescue, they were meant to remain anonymous, and not attract media attention. With such a high profile court case, anonymity would be all but a dream.

"The bad news is that there has been one confirmed fatality."

Scott closed his eyes briefly before opening them. Gordon slumped into the back of his chair. The hope of retrieving all three hostages alive had been shot down. And John, John had to be the one to witness it all, with no one there beside him.

Scott shot a look at Gordon. _I'm heading over to John. He shouldn't be alone right now. You stay here until Dad and the others come. Any change with Al or Virg and you let me know through the watches. I will hunt your puny ass down and nail it to the wall if you don't._

Gordon gulped and nodded.

Nodding her head quickly, the FBI agent left the room. Gordon turned to Scott.

"What d'you think Dad will say to having to testify in court?"

"A vehement no, but I think we should do it," Scott replied, shrugging his shoulders.

"You do?" To say Gordon was surprised by his brother's answer would have been an understatement.

"Yeah, I think we need to make a stand. I am sick and tired of this kind of shit happening! Think about it, we've all been targeted since IR's inception. The Hood blew up Five with John still inside it, he kidnapped me and buried me alive, and now he's gone for Virgil and Alan! We have to let others know that while we're always willing to lend a hand when we're needed, we won't tolerate what's been happening."

"Basically, nip it in the bud?"

"More like pruning thorns on a rose bush, but yeah, that is the general idea. I'm going to personally ensure something like this does not happen again," Scott affirmed, blue eyes flashing dangerously. At another point in time, Gordon would, once again, wonder what lengths Scott was willing to go to, to ensure that his words were true. However, he was far too tired and exhausted to even care. Scott would take care of it in the way he saw fit, as he always did.

"I'm gonna go head off to John. I'll let you know what happens, but I'll probably take him straight back to the island. You stay here and don't move. Once Dad and the others have arrived, you should take Two back to Base."

With that, Scott marched out of the waiting room, leaving Gordon to sit, waiting for news on Virgil or Alan. Instead of heading straight out of the back entrance of the hospital to avoid the flocks of media that had formed at the main entrance, Scott made a detour through a labyrinth of corridors. The room he was interested in was guarded by a member of security, but it was useless. The security guard didn't even glance up or stop him as Scott walked through the door.

From inside the room, two FBI agents had been rendered unconscious. Well, Scott hoped they were unconscious; it was very possible that the Hood had killed them to ensure he could evade capture. The Field Commander wouldn't have put it past the Hood, given that his arch nemesis was a man without scruples.

"You fool," the Hood whispered sinisterly, as he ripped out several IV lines from his arm. "You have no idea what you've brought upon yourself."

Unfazed by what should have passed as a threat, Scott took a step into the room, closing the door behind him. His blue eyes flashed dangerously, almost turning black in the light as he regarded the Hood.

"No, _you_ have no idea what you've brought upon yourself."

* * *

><p>Even though it was just past five fifteen in the afternoon, the sun had long disappeared behind thick, tumultuous grey clouds. Rain drizzled down from the sky, spitting on the young man who sat at the edge of the pier, but he didn't seem to care. Didn't react to the water dripping off his nose, down his back. What was a little water in the wake of what he had lost?<p>

Didn't react when her body had been covered up in a body bag, his attempts at resuscitation all done in vain.

Didn't react when her body had been taken out of his eyesight.

Didn't react when her personal effects – her glasses and a notepad and pen – were recovered from the water.

Didn't react when the ring he held in his hand began to bite into his skin as his grip was so tight.

Didn't react when the scene gradually emptied of people, save for a few agents milling about in the distance.

Didn't react when he felt a familiar hand on his shoulder.

"John?"

John had no choice but to crane his neck upwards. "She's gone, Scott."

"I know. I'm sorry, John." Scott faltered. What else could he say? He had been lucky enough in life to not have experienced the death of a significant other. With a sigh, Scott folded his legs under his body as he sat next to John. "The people who abducted her? They'll be charged with kidnapping and torture, but the FBI will probably move to have murder added to the charges. Justice will be served, John."

John, morose, merely picked at a thread coming out of his uniform sleeve. "What difference does that make? I don't care if they have to spend life in prison; it doesn't change the fact that Jade's dead! Whatever their punishment, it will _never_ be as bad as it was for Jade. They _drowned _her! He saw me, saw me running towards her and shoved her head under the water! He held her there, subdued her until she had stopped thrashing around, and let her go so her body would float to the surface! So, you tell me if any punishment could make up for that!"

"John…"

"Don't!" The poor man was in anguish, raking his hands through water soaked, mussed up hair, knowing that he should have been able to have saved his fiancée. "Whatever you were going to say, don't!"

Silence reigned. Scott waited for John to continue. John clamped down on his lip and didn't say another word. After a few moments – patience was a virtue he had not been given – Scott rose to his feet, pulling John up with him.

"Come on, I'm taking you home."

And with no argument from John, they made their way back to Thunderbird One.

* * *

><p>On Tracy Island, it was not unusual to find Kyrano pottering around in the gardens he tended to, especially in times of stress. There was something so satisfying, not to mention stress relieving, about pulling out that stubborn weed that had refused to move.<p>

However, it was unusual to find him sitting amongst the petunias, still and unmoving. He had a good reason though; he was relishing in the peace and serenity that flowed over his physical, mental and spiritual being. It was not a feeling he had had in a long time; normally, in the deep, dark recess of his mind, his brother lurked, filling him with an anger that Kyrano worked hard on controlling.

With that feeling gone, Kyrano could come to only one conclusion, and that filled him with an inner peace.

From above, Kyrano could see Thunderbird One fly overhead and come in to land in her hanger. Someone, most definitely Scott, was back at Base. Kyrano pushed himself off the soil and headed back indoors, just in time to see John and Scott swivel through the wall. John appeared to be dazed, with his cornflower blue eyes glazed over. Scott was guiding him through the room.

"Mr Scott, Mr John," Kyrano called out in his soft, melodic voice. Despite the fact that the Tracy boys were more than half his age, and despite the fact that they had all encouraged Kyrano to address them by their first name, Kyrano would not acquiesce. He had too much respect for the men of International Rescue to not call them by just their first name.

"It is good to have you back. May I be of any help to you?" By this, it was understood that Kyrano was enquiring if they were hungry or thirsty so he could prepare a light snack or cup of coffee for them.

"No, thanks, Kyrano," Scott replied, tugging John along, encouraging him to walk. "I'm just going to get John to his room."

A few strides and they were almost heading down the hallway that led to John's suite.

"Mr Scott," Kyrano called out again. It was important that he imparted this information on to someone. "My brother. I cannot sense him. He is dead."

From where he was, Scott paused and turned his head to look straight back at Kyrano. It was an expression Kyrano had never seen on his friend's oldest son's face, one he couldn't relate to. Voice as steady as ever, with a chilled undertone, Scott issued out his reply.

"I know."


	11. Chapter 11

**Disclaimer:** **The Thunderbirds do not belong to me. They are the intellectual and actual property of Gerry Anderson and his affiliates. Any original characters are a product of my imagination.**

**AN: I guess I should put a blanket warning in this chapter for some adult implied action. I think it's okay for the rating (I'll be honest and say that the ratings confuse me, a lot), but here's a warning all the same**.

**This is most definitely part of the saga/series/linked stories I've been writing over the years, and is most definitely a sequel to "Hidden Identity" and stories set prior to that one. Needless to say, OCs established in the other tales will feature,****briefly, in this, but I'm thinking it could still be understood if you haven't read them. Anyway, enough from me... hope you enjoy. :)**

Chapter 11

To Jefferson Tracy, head honcho of a multi-billion dollar business and founder of International Rescue, waiting seemed to be a waste of time. It instilled a sense of inertia within him, a feeling of hopelessness, mingled with a touch of fear. Waiting was all he could do when the Search and Rescue teams had recovered Scott and Lucy's body from the snow. Waiting without purpose held bad memories for him.

Gordon had long gone back to Tracy Island, taking Thunderbird Two with him, leaving the patriarch of the family in the waiting room with two semi-stressed, yet not hysterical daughter-in-laws. From his left, Tin-Tin absentmindedly flicked through the pages of a magazine she clearly wasn't reading loudly, while Gus sat on the other side, peeling strips of skin away from her thumbs.

Since their arrival, there had been no further news on the condition of Alan and Virgil. Jeff supposed that was a good thing, given that no news meant that both his sons were still clinging to life.

Another flick of the page from Tin-Tin.

Another skin strip peeled and dropped to the ground.

Another minute passing by, bleeding into another hour passing by.

A further cup of coffee for Jeff.

A call from Brains, up on Five, still keeping tabs on the situation, even though the rescue was officially over.

No calls from the island. A sure sign that the boys were rattled themselves, working through their own issues before they could assume the role of being a tower of strength for the others.

Thinking of his boys, Jeff could feel for his second eldest. There were few things in life worse than losing the only person he would ever love. Yes, John was more like him than he cared to think; there was only one woman John would open his heart to, and with her gone, Jeff knew that John would commit himself to a life of celibacy, in the same manner his father had done.

Gordon hadn't looked too good either, Jeff realised, when they had briefly crossed paths. His uniform pants had jagged edges in them, and the eldest Tracy could see where a tourniquet had been applied to his thighs.

"Just a few flesh wounds, Dad, from where the wolves got me" Gordon had dismissed with a wave of his hand. "Superficial, mainly. It'll leave a few scars, but I don't care about that, and I'm much better off than Virgil or Alan."

It didn't stop Jeff from inspecting it himself, turning his fourth son's legs so he could see the extent of the damage that had been covered by the wrapped bandage.

"Ow, Dad, stop it!" Gordon had hissed as his father's hands lightly passed over the covered sores. "I told you, I'm fine!"

And as for Scott… Jeff couldn't put his finger on it, but something about the man had changed. He could detect that much from his eldest son's voice, even though he had yet to see the younger man. Briefly, his mind trailed back to the news of the Hood's demise. Scott hadn't seemed too surprised by that when Jeff had told him about it. Did he…? Jeff shook his head quickly, clearing his mind of traitorous thoughts. He knew that his eldest wasn't capable of that. There had to be something else bugging him. It was the only other plausible explanation.

With another long suffering sigh, Jeff fidgeted in his chair, with no other option but to continue waiting.

In another lifetime, this would not have happened to his sons. If his Lucille was still here, he had no doubt that their five children would have diverged from their childhood home, scouring the world as they forged their future and pursued their dreams.

Alan, no doubt, would have carved out a stellar career in the NASCAR races. Even though he had a natural aptitude towards anything related to space, Jeff knew that Alan's true passion lay in racing, and his passion would have trumped his aptitude.

Gordon, most likely, would have remained in WASP, exploring the hidden depths the ocean held, swimming amongst the sea anemone and fishes. Who knew, he could have even discovered the lost city of Atlantis.

Virgil would have progressed through the hierarchy in the engineering company he was working for before joining International Rescue. Of course, he would have continued to paint and excel in his musical interests. Jeff knew that Virgil needed them just as much as he needed oxygen to breathe.

John would have made a fortune from his bestsellers. He may have even branched out from writing fiction and tried his hand at a factual book about deep space systems, quasars, white dwarfs and black holes. In addition to that, he would have continued to work for NASA, letting his communicative skills propel his career forward.

It was a common misconception in the Tracy household that Scott wanted to stay in the Air Force. Instead, it was only through a sleepless summer night and late night conversation with his eldest that had showed Jeff how very wrong he was. Instead, Scott harboured a desire to work as a commercial pilot. A strange notion to Jeff, given that Jeff had loved the agility and the speed of the aircraft he had flown in the Force. But then, Scott had always liked structure, always craved routine, something he couldn't quite achieve in the Air Force. Few people knew about Scott's aspiration, but Jeff felt honoured that his son was willing to share it with him.

And with nothing else to distract Jeff, the waiting continued.

* * *

><p>John Tracy did not remember what had happened after Scott had brought him home. He did not remember Scott instructing him to change out of his uniform and get into something more comfortable. He did not realise that Scott had stayed by his side until he had slipped off into a daze with his eyes glassed over.<p>

But now… now he was awake, thanks to the gnawing sensation in his stomach, he was wide awake in the land of the conscious. His head hurt, his stomach ached and he had a crick in his neck. Moving his hand to rub at it, he was not surprised when he couldn't detect a discernible pulse.

_Hard to have one when your heart's been ripped out of your chest and thrown asunder,_ his brain reminded him. Jeez, it hadn't even been a day and he couldn't believe how much he missed her. How much he missed knowing what he was missing out on with Jade.

Flinging the covers off, he stomped to the kitchen, ready to raid Kyrano's supply of cooking sherry, amongst other sources of alcohol. What he wasn't expecting, was to see Gordon slumped on the table, head resting on crossed arms.

"John? Are you okay?"

John narrowed his eyes, shooting his little brother a murderous glance. "My two little brothers are under the knife in hospital. I've just lost my fiancée, after witnessing her being brutally murdered. Do you really think I'm okay?"

Gordon, realising he had asked one of the stupidest questions under the circumstances, had the grace to look slightly uncomfortable.

"Well," he offered, despite John's foul mood. "If you want to talk, I'm here for you."

In slow motion, John turned so that he was facing Gordon.

"Given that this entire situation was your fault," he snarled, wanting to make someone else hurt just as much as he was, "_you_ are the last person I would go to. You can't even do the simple task of keeping your brothers safe! If you fuck up on that, I don't even know why the hell you're on this team!"

By the time John's mind had registered what his mouth had said, and he was willing to offer an apology, knowing he was out of line with his last comment, Gordon had fled, hurting on the inside, just as John had intended.

* * *

><p>It had been a long time since this particular Tracy had come here. Guilt had kept him away. But the comments from the latest rescue drew him back to the memorial plaque that honoured his mother. The wind breezed around him gently, ruffling and messing up his curls, but he could have cared less.<p>

"Why'd you have to die, Mom?" he spat out bitterly. "Why'd you have to leave me with the fallout? I meant what I said on the day of your funeral. It should have been me instead! I killed you by staying alive! All I've done since then is mess things up; under my watch, Alan, Gordon and Virgil are all physically hurt, and John's just had the worst possible thing done to him. I've got this threat looming over the family I've started with Tash, and I don't know how to deal with it. It would have been easier if you were here and I wasn't."

With no response, no reassurance that everything happened for a reason, the guilt compounded within him, twisting his insides into knots. Unable to endure it for any longer, he turned his back from the memorial and headed down to the grotto carved into a cliff face, one that was easily accessible at low tide, but at high tide, it was completely submerged by the water. The grotto was his usual hiding place, where he could overlook the curved shoreline easily, while sitting on the sandy floor of the grotto. With only his tortured thoughts for company, he didn't notice the soft footfalls that had followed him.

"Scott?" A soft, feminine voice. "Talk to me?"

"No." Scott shook his head to emphasise the point. "Just… no."

It did not seem to deter the red head. Instead, she sat down next to him, cross legged and took his hands in hers. "Scott, Gordon told me what happened."

A sharp look in her direction, one conveying hurt, pain and betrayal in one glance.

"Don't ask me to apologise for wanting to find out what happened, Scott! You're my husband, and I will do whatever I can to make this easier for you!"

He pulled his hands roughly out of her grasp and raked it through his hair.

"I know what he said, and he's wrong. He will_ never_ be the father to our kids! _You _are, and heaven forbid, if something should happen to you out there, I'll make sure they know exactly who you are. And for the comments made about me, you know that the only hands I'll have roamed over my body are yours. The only name I'll have on my lips is yours. He is not a threat to you, or me, or us as a partnership, or a family. Especially since he's being held in custody."

"Protective custody is not a failsafe stopgap. People escape from custody, much like the Hood did. And what happens to you if that happens? You think he'd give a damn about how you feel, Tash? No! He'd just use you and take what he wants, because he knows that hurting you is the easiest way to hurt me!"

It was bugging him, but that was just one small component of a larger problems that still remained at the forefront of his mind.

"Scott, look at me," she said, placing her hand under his chin and twisting his neck towards her. "Whatever your fears are in regards to this, I can assure you that it will not come to fruition."

"And _how_ can you be sure?" Scott spat out acidly, rising to his feet as his leg muscle s started to cramp.

"Because," she replied patiently, despite his flash of temper, "I won't let him. You were the first person I slept with, you will be the last person I sleep with and you are all times in between the first and last. No one else. It's that simple."

Scott gazed over his wife, eyes searching for only a promise she could give him. Hand outstretched, he hoisted her to her feet and pulled her tight to him, feeling her skin on his, her head resting over his heartbeat.

"That's not all, though, is it?" she ventured, tilting her head back so she could stare straight into his unwavering blue eyes. He broke the gaze, turning his head away so he could watch the waves crash onto the sandy bank of the beach opposite the grotto.

"How can you love me?" he asked eventually, voice full of broken shards of glass, holding back the tears that clogged his throat. "I'm not who you think I am. I left my mom down in the snow to die."

"I love you."

I killed my mom! I murdered my mother at nine!"

"I love you."

"And I've killed others too, when I was in the Air Force, older but not wiser! God, Tash, how can you love me as I am?"

"I love you. Even though you hog the blankets at night, you leave the cap off the toothpaste all the time and you sometimes kick me in your sleep, I still love you. Even in light of your flaws, and yes, you _do_ have them, I see this amazing man, one who's kind-hearted, generous, selfless," her eyebrows quirked at the next bit, "one hell of a lover and someone I've been lucky enough to fall in love with and claim him as my own. Someone who's willing to raise a family with me. I don't know what more you want me to say, except that I love you. I will always love you, and only you. I'm yours, and yours alone."

Even though Scott had sought his answers to both of his issues out with his eyes, he wanted to hear it with his own ears. "Promise?"

"Here's my promise," she murmured, moving into his chest before kissing her way up his neck until she reached his lips, sliding her hands under his t-shirt and letting them trail down the length of his chest.

They continued like that, comforting and reassuring each other, exploring each other with their hands and lips, until every last vestige of clothing lay on the sand. A moment of serenity, controlling the surge of emotion they were feeling, assessing the situation they were in. Scott chewed on his lip briefly, pulling her into his body, crushing them together; pieces of a jigsaw fitting together to form a complete picture.

"Scott," Tash managed, breath catching in her chest. Hesitation. "Do you want to do this?"

A tilt of his head to the left. She should have known the answer, or at least been able to figure it out. And then it hit her. This wasn't something he _wanted_, it was something he _needed_. Gazing deep into his eyes, searching their hidden depths, she sought out what Scott wanted her to find. This wasn't an act of gratification for Scott, for either of them, it was a matter of needing to love, needing to be loved and feel loved, in a pure and unconditional form. And perhaps, Tash realised as they fell to the sand, Scott needed this just as much as she did, if not more.

* * *

><p>Jeff was startled out of his half daze by a lady dressed in surgical scrubs appearing in front of his vision. Expectantly, he looked up.<p>

It was news about Alan.

Alan was out of surgery. Alive. Doped up from anaesthetic, but alive.

That was most important.

Alan had pulled through.

"He's asking to see you," the surgeon informed Jeff. "Head down this corridor and then turn left. He's in the third room on the right."

With a nod of thanks, Jeff raced towards the room, Tin-Tin following hot on his heels. The door was closed and Jeff came to a halt, hand poised over the doorknob.

Deep breath in.

Deep breath out.

Bracing himself for what he would find, Jeff turned the door handle and walked inside.


	12. Chapter 12

**Disclaimer:** **The Thunderbirds do not belong to me. They are the intellectual and actual property of Gerry Anderson and his affiliates. Any original characters are a product of my imagination.**

**AN: Another last chapter, condensing what should have been two chapters into one, simply because I didn't want to drag this on. I think that this is a good time to let this go and move on. Another story with the Plot Bunny of Infinite Doom planning a sequel. Now, to decide which sequel will be posted first; the sequel to IBBS, or the sequel to this... **

**A huge thank you to everyone who's read and reviewed. It really does mean a lot, and is incredibly encouraging, especially when I felt like leaving this in a state of limbo a few chapters ago... Even if it's just one or two words, it's always nice to know that someone out there is enjoying this. :)**

**This is most definitely part of the saga/series/linked stories I've been writing over the years, and is most definitely a sequel to "Hidden Identity" and stories set prior to that one. Needless to say, OCs established in the other tales will feature,****briefly, in this, but I'm thinking it could still be understood if you haven't read them. Anyway, enough from me... hope you enjoy. :D**

Chapter Twelve

Doped up on pain medication meant that Alan Tracy could feel nothing. The sluggishness from the anaesthetic lingering in his body also aided that. Looking up as the door opened, he offered his father and Tin-Tin a cross between a grimace and a tight smile. He offered them a mask, hiding how he really felt.

"How are you feeling?" Tin-Tin asked, rushing over to his side and tracing the profile of his face lightly with her hand. It was an act of comfort, reassuring herself that Alan was still alive, still there, present in her life.

Alan flinched away from her touch, unable to endure it for any longer than a few milliseconds. He was aware of how that would hurt Tin-Tin, but after what the doctor had told him moments earlier, he found that there were more pressing issues to be dealt with, compared to making sure he didn't hurt his wife's feelings.

"How's Virgil?" Alan asked, serving as a distraction.

"Still in surgery," Tin-Tin replied. "The surgeons believe he's pull through alright."

"Dad?" There was a quiver in Alan's voice, pitched a few octaves higher than normal.

"What is it, Alan?"

"I need to talk to you."

"I'm listening."

A quick flick of his eyes over to Tin-Tin.

"Alone. Dad, I need to talk to you, alone."

Tin-Tin still didn't budge. Instead, she remained beside Alan, obstinate, wanting to know what was so important. She wondered why Alan felt that he couldn't share them with her, especially since she was his significant other, but her musings were interrupted by Jeff.

"Tin-Tin, could you let someone on the island know that Alan's awake? Please?"

There was something in Jeff's voice that made her comply to Jeff's request instead of refusing it. Alan waited until she had closed the door behind her before letting his façade crumble.

"Alan?" Jeff asked, helpless. He wasn't privy to what was troubling Alan, had no idea how to fix it, didn't know if he _could_ make everything exactly as it was before he sent all five of his sons out on a nightmarish rescue.

"I can't tell her, Dad," Alan choked on his breath, sounding slightly hysterical. "I can't do it, Dad!"

"Tell Tin-Tin what, Alan?" Jeff asked, realising he would have to coax the problem out of Alan.

"I can't have any more kids, Dad," Alan finally admitted, pulling a fraying thread out of his blanket. Anything not to have to look at his father while he said that. "The wolves that attacked me, they snacked on me in that general vicinity."

At Jeff's confused frown, Alan waved his hand over his hips and top half of his thighs. Jeff couldn't help but wince and cross his legs.

"Even though everything's still attached, there's been too much damage to that area. Irreversible damage."

"Alan…"

Lost for words. What could a father say to a son in a situation like that?

"Dad," Alan continued, unable to keep the sob out from his voice. Angrily, he wiped at the watery film that coated his eyes.

"I'm really grateful that Tin and I have Leroy, but I've always wanted him to have siblings. After three years, I had finally convinced Tin that giving Leroy a little brother or sister would have been a good thing, and we were getting ready to try for another baby. Dad, how do I tell her I can't do it? How do I tell her I've been rendered sterile?"

* * *

><p>With the sunlight fading fast, and moonlight approaching, Scott and Tash headed back to the villa, hand in hand, feeling less agitated than they had been before. On their way back, they came across Gordon, who was angrily skimming pebbles into the Pacific Ocean. A quick exchange between the two brothers, with minor interaction from Tash, and Gordon, once again, found himself listening to Scott reiterate the fact that none of it was his fault.<p>

"There are people out there who want to hurt us, and no matter how hard we try, we can't always prevent it," Scott explained patiently, giving his brother's shoulder a slight squeeze.

Gordon shrugged him off, flinging another stone into the waves.

"You did good out there today, Gordon," Scott continued. "I'm proud of the way you handled things and I'm glad you're on my side."

Gordon scoffed, muttering something under his breath. "John isn't. Told me I was a fuck up and that I didn't deserve to be a Thunderbird."

That, Scott knew, would have hurt Gordon. During the first few years of International Rescue's establishment, Gordon had fought hard to prove himself as a capable member of the team on terrestrial rescues; otherwise he would have been relegated to only performing on aquatic rescues. It was John who had believed that Gordon was more than capable of handling himself on land rescues. Slowly, but surely, the other brothers had caught onto John's way of thinking, but the fact that it was John who had first trusted him meant a lot to Gordon.

"Gordy," Tash began, slinging her arm over his shoulder. "John's hurt right now, and he's just lashing out at people. I know it's hard, but you were just the person closest when he needed to snap."

"Not an excuse," Scott countered, folding his arms over his chest, adamant in his reasoning. "He shouldn't have said it, Gordon. You are an integral part of this team, and we need you. I need you on this team. Virgil needs you as part of his crew. Alan needs you. Even John needs you on rescues."

"I know he's lashing out. I know he doesn't mean it," Gordon sighed, flinging yet another pebble into the ocean. "That's what makes this so hard; I can't even kick his ass, because he doesn't mean it!"

"_You _can't kick his ass," Scott said, sly grin creeping onto his face.

Gordon turned, so that he was facing Scott head on. "You'd do that for me?"

"For you, Gordon dearest, I'll kick it twice."

* * *

><p>Waking up was a bitch, Virgil surmised, pushing through the dense fog in his mind. Even though he had long been brought out from the effects of anaesthesia, he was so exhausted, mentally and physically, that he continued to sleep restlessly.<p>

Until now.

Everything hurt; every part of his body ached, sending fresh waves of pain up down his torso. Couldn't even open his mouth to groan in agony without causing himself more agony.

Actually, that wasn't quite true.

Couldn't open his mouth at all.

No duct tape glued to his skin, no vibrating object jammed between his gums, but something still felt off.

"How're you feeling Virgil?"

A low, rich baritone, Virgil thought, mind relating it to music to help comfort him. A defence mechanism, he thought, something his mind did to keep him calm and make him feel as safe as possible.

_Ah, the dulcet tones of Jeff Tracy. How long has Dad been fretting by my bedside?_

If he had the energy, Virgil would have raised his hands and displayed the thumbs down sign.

"Don't try to talk, Virgil."

_An alto? Must be Gus. Must somehow tell my wife I love her. Must remember to do that. Somehow._

"They've reconstructed your jaw as best as they can, and now they've wired it shut. They've also reset all of your broken and dislocated bones while trying to repair as much tendon and muscular damage as they can," she explained, lightly tracing a finger over the edge of his hairline. "You're going to be alright, Virg. You'll get through this. I won't leave your side while you're recovering. I will be by your side through it all. I'm not going anywhere. Brains has already started to design a new set of teeth for you."

Virgil nodded in understanding and blinked, trying to convey the thought that was on his mind out to his father.

"Your brothers are safe, Virg. Scott, Gordon and John, they're back on the island. Alan's fine too; I've put in a request to have you both moved to the same room."

At that revelation, Virgil's eyes widened fractionally, honey burnt irises dilating in shock.

"Alan was taken too, and hurt quite badly, but he'll recover as best as he can now."

Speaking of Alan, he was rolled into the room, where all his monitors were hooked up to him. Pushing himself up onto his arm, the one that had heaps of padding and bandages, Alan finally got to see Virgil, convince himself that his brother was still alive, still clinging to life. Virgil looked like hell, in Alan's opinion, but at least he was still alive. His tawny skin had paled slightly, and his face had puffed up from swelling.

With his two hospitalised sons settled, Jeff raised his watch. "How about I call home, let Gordon and Scott talk to you two?"

"What about John?" Alan asked. "Has something happened to John?"

"John's fine, physically," Jeff reassured his youngest. From beside him, Virgil frowned, most definitely picking up on the mention of only being physically alright.

"Just let him be for a few days. He's probably in his room in a catatonic stupor."

And that statement had alarm bells chorusing inside Virgil's head. John was fine, but only physically. It had to mean that John was not stable emotionally. Something had happened to someone John cared about deeply. He would never know how he managed to join the dots, but from that, Virgil surmised that Jade had not survived. Out of the three people who had been taken hostage, John's fiancée was the only one to have been murdered. Virgil could feel his heart shatter for John. The onset of guilt began to form, after discovering the news. During the brief time they had spent together, there had to have been something Virgil could have done to prevent Jade from dying. Virgil should have done something to spare John the heartache he would go through.

Taking off his watch and propping it up on the table between the two boys in bed, Jeff waited for the connection to link up with the island. He was not at all surprised when Gordon answered his call.

"Hey Dad, how goes it?"

Gordon looked drained, to the point of exhausted. It was only a cup of coffee that was keeping the red head awake.

"Where's Scott and John?" Jeff asked.

"John's in his room, with the do not disturb light on, and Scott's making sure that his three kids eat their dinner. Do you want me to get them?"

"Just Scott for now," Jeff said, closing his eyes briefly.

It was a few moments before the image on the face of the watch filled with Gordon and Scott. Again, Jeff was not surprised to see Scott had a family sized tub of ice-cream and gummy bears in his hand, with a heaped spoon of the mixture shoved into his mouth; Scott always seemed to comfort eat when his nerves were shot or he was stressed. This time, it was a combination of the two.

"I've two people here that you'll want to see," Jeff began, gesturing to both Alan and Virgil.

"Are they okay?" Gordon asked, the words tumbling from his mouth in quick succession.

"Take a look for yourself."

Pulling the watch closer to them, Jeff remained silent as he watched his sons interact with each other, regain the equilibrium that made them such a tight clan. It was then that Jeff realised that they would get through the immediate aftermath of the rescue relatively intact. The team of International Rescue would remain an entity, rather than many separate components working in tandem with each other. International Rescue would live to see another day.

They would get through the aftershock of this rescue like other families would.

They would do it in typical Tracy fashion, the way they always did.

The boys, their wives and families, Jeff, Kyrano and Brains would persevere, face whatever fallout came their way, and there would be hardships and setbacks during the recovery process. Of that much, Jeff was sure, given that they would be embroiled in an investigation in regards to the Hood's unexplained - for now - death, and the murder of John's fiancée.

International Rescue would respond to emergencies as the world called upon them and the Tracys would prevail, wait for what came next, together.


End file.
